Romance in Color

by Synithia Williams

  Kathy popped the final bit of crust into her mouth. “So?”

  “I don’t drive,” Mona replied.

  “At all?”

  “I’ve never even started a car.” She leaned back in her chair, aware it was impossible to escape Daryl’s frequent inspection but determined to not let her concern show. Matt had learned to drive. Most of her friends kept valid licenses. Her best friend, Jennifer, owned a car.

  “We’ll have to cure that.” Linc sent her half a smile. “Next time we visit the orchard, maybe tomorrow, I’ll start you off on the tractor.”

  “You might be wasting your time.” I could be hundreds of miles away.

  He shrugged. “Mother keeps telling me to develop patience. Teaching you might be good for both of us.”

  “We’ll see.” She tucked her napkin under the edge of her empty plate.

  Daryl slid a business card, face down, toward Mona. “Any time you need to talk.”

  She covered it with one hand and glanced at Linc before speaking. “Any topic?”

  “Did he ask you?”

  Heat flashed across her face and she became grateful for the subdued tavern lighting. Regardless of the sort of law enforcement this man represented, she wanted to keep a good impression with Linc’s friend. “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Don’t think too long.” He gestured for the server’s attention.

  “Ready to go?” Linc rested one hand on top of hers.

  Every nerve from the wrist down stirred, urging her to rotate her hand and lace fingers with him. No, it would be foolish and premature, and would steer conversation between here and Eau Claire in exactly the wrong direction. He was a decent man, too good to expose to the cape of trouble attached to her shoulders.

  • • •

  Basil parked on the far side of Daniel’s truck to minimize notice from the road. He stood beside his El Camino for a long moment, thinking of the white van he’d met less than two miles back. Could that be the one Mona rode away in? He’d been distracted by the voice of the GPS and didn’t read enough of the license plate to be certain. The van he sought wasn’t parked on the village streets this afternoon. He’d checked carefully while making two passes on both main streets. He’d make another circuit around town after his business here. Maybe the place livened up a bit on a Saturday night.

  He checked once more that his phone remained clipped to his belt, glanced at the dark clouds rolling in, and walked up the ramp to the sliding door open the width of a man.

  A low groan wafted up from the barn’s lower level. Basil tensed, waited for his eyes to adjust to the shadowed depths of the hay storage area, and started down steep, wooden steps.

  Metal laboratory stands, broken glassware, and light aluminum trays lay scattered and smashed around the large wooden work table. A yellow liquid dripped from a broken beaker to the cement floor. One of three hot plates rested on its side against a fallen wooden stool. The previous laboratory of clean, orderly equipment heating, distilling, and mixing drug ingredients notable on his previous visit appeared to have suffered a tornado. Or an explosion. He glanced at the stout wood beams overhead and noticed lack of charring, or even scorch marks.

  “Help … here.”

  Basil turned his head toward the sound. A moment later he moved toward the weak voice and kicked a shallow pan away from Daniel’s foot. His chemist lay on the floor, both legs at unnatural angles and blood seeping through his jeans. One side of his face was swelling to hide an eye and thin lines of red from his nose and mouth merged like streams on a map. Who got here first?

  Daniel lifted an arm an inch off his chest and let it drop. “Help me.”

  “Why?” Basil stepped past him and looked out the window. A lone figure hurried away through the first of the rain. Basil watched the man move along the fence, staying on the narrow strip of grass edging the planted field. “Friend of yours?”

  “Call … nine … one one.”

  “Don’t think so.” Basil squatted outside of Daniel’s reach. “Who was here? How many dealers are you cheating?”

  “No … no drugs with …” Daniel lapsed into silence, exhausted.

  “No reason for me to believe you.” Basil spied a speckled notebook at the edge of a clear puddle and picked it up with a bandanna from his pocket. “What will I find in here, Daniel? You got the real numbers recorded? What percentage did you claim as ‘exclusive’?”

  “I … I … didn’t … Help …”

  “Exclusive, Daniel.” He kicked him in the hip and frowned disgust at the condition of his chemist and the odor of burnt cornstarch and sugar base. “Total. One hundred percent. Every color.” He shifted and landed the next kick against the chemist’s ribs. “Every last tablet and capsule you mix with MDMA. It all comes to me.”

  Daniel’s cough came out mixed with a choke and another surge of blood at his lips. “Meeer … cy.”

  “You don’t even beg well.” Basil set the book on the table and carefully turned a few pages. He skimmed through notations of cooking times and weights of various ingredients. When he turned the next page he found a narrative. “Who’s Linc?”

  Daniel’s visible eye drifted closed and his groan faded. He rolled his head a few degrees and the intermittent blood droplets emerging from his ear came closer together until they melded into a constant stream.

  “Did he beat you?”

  “Ahh …”

  “Linc’s damn trees.” Basil read from a diary entry with today’s date and tossed more words at Daniel. “How much land do you intend to buy? I haven’t paid you enough for more than a few acres. Who else you selling to?”

  Basil stared as Daniel’s chest rose less and less with each breath. The chemist slipped beyond more than a weak groan as his fingers developed a blue tinge at the tips.

  Basil skimmed over several earlier journal entries and smiled as dots of information resolved into a sketch of Linc’s and Daniel’s antagonistic history. He strolled to the door at the end of the barn and discovered it unlatched from the hasty departure of Daniel’s assailant. He pushed it open and studied rain soaking into dirt with spaced tufts of grass. The orchard on the far side of a field entrance appeared tidy behind woven wire fence and a steel gate.

  What’s the quick, easy way to point the authorities to the orchard owner and hide my visit? He returned to take a pair of latex gloves from a box on the floor and kicked Daniel once more to ensure recovery was impossible. For the next few minutes he unmolded and collected every tablet and capsule of E and Molly he could find. He packed the drugs and notebook into a plastic garbage bag and exited via the lower level door.

  Enough profit in this bag to keep Kevin in a top-notch rehab facility for a year. He shaped the bag to hide low behind the passenger seat. Then he walked in the thundershower to the orchard gate.

  When Basil returned from the tool shed across the lane he carried a tarp and a long, narrow pry bar. He paid careful attention to each footstep and avoided all of the visible liquids and boot prints on the floor. He dropped the heavy tool at the end of the table with a clatter. Finally he squatted beside a silent Daniel, checked for a pulse in the neck, and smiled.

  Chapter Eight

  Linc rinsed the final specks of shaving cream from his face and reached for the towel. Soft footsteps overhead and the scent of coffee leaking down the stairs confirmed that Mona was still there. Let me protect you. He flipped off the light switch and hurried upstairs. Either he’d be driving her to the Greyhound stop or taking her with him to the orchard. He may as well find out now.

  “Morning.” Mona lowered two slices of bread in the toaster a moment after he walked into view.

  “No ‘good’ in front of that?” He failed to keep a smile off his face. Her presence in his kitchen, dressed in jeans and tank top, black hair pulled into a ponytail secured with a wide red band, warmed the room better than sunshine.

  “You ask for a lot.”

  He filled the mug sitting next to the coffeemaker and took
a cautious sip. “Maybe.” He watched her over the rim of his cup and tried to imagine the last few days from her perspective. It was overwhelming. “Do I owe an apology? An explanation?”

  She worked in silence, punctuating her actions with sips of coffee. When a short stack of buttered toast filled two small plates she brought them to the table. “I’m not comfortable with this.”

  “Which part?” He poured honey-touched oat rounds into a bowl and failed to make eye contact with her. “The marriage proposal? Basil finding Crystal Springs? Or does the idea of Daryl running a background check upset you?”

  “Basil. Mostly.” She topped off her coffee mug. “You could have mentioned the background check before we were halfway home. When Daryl stopped in at the orchard, for instance.”

  “I’ll put that in the apology column.” He added milk to his bowl. “You could call the police.” He suggested the same action he’d failed to talk her into during the return to Eau Claire and an hour of conversation in this same room last evening. “He did break into your apartment.”

  “Yes, he did. Three days ago.” She picked up a half slice of toast and set it down again. “Police want proof. Evidence. For all I know Basil’s gone back and wiped away any traces he ever entered my place.”

  “Maybe he didn’t recognize my van. Are you sure he took photos?”

  “Impossible to prove. It’s just … well … he has a reputation to maintain. Collecting his due. If he’s convinced Matt is hiding money with me, he won’t stop.”

  “Does he carry a gun?”

  “Is that where your ‘let me protect you’ mantra ends?” She bit into her breakfast.

  “No.”

  “He has a history of using his fists. Or, in Matt’s case, hiring others.”

  Linc studied her face and fought the urge to reach across the table. His fingers yearned to caress her deepening worry lines away. “Two against him sounds better than one.”

  “No police. I won’t put Matt’s blood on my hands.” She pushed back her chair. “We should get going. I’ve a row of trees to finish.”

  • • •

  Mona filled the long silences during the drive to Crystal Springs with several rounds of examining and discarding her options. They each wore different shapes, the negative points pushing forward for attention ahead of their positive companions. Her breakfast—one slice of toast—poked at her stomach as if it had reassembled and turned to stone.

  Her first instinct, delayed after Linc’s presentation of confidence in his ability to protect her, remained flight. Milwaukee beckoned. It was large enough to hide in a crowd. She could blend in, find a job off the books either cooking or cleaning. Within a few days a pre-paid phone and post office box would enable contact with Matt. And give Basil’s inside men a trail of breadcrumbs.

  Did drug kingpins have inter-city networks? She shivered under another of Linc’s large, long-sleeved shirts on loan.

  Linc’s marriage proposal tempted her like a cinnamon roll drizzled with a butter and pecan glaze. Then the caution flag popped into view. Marriage was serious, a promise to God as well as the other person. This one, if she agreed at all, needed conditions. Limits. Protection and a respectable status tempted her. Would he restrict or smother her progress toward the restaurant dream? Marriage gave him land. She gained—? She glanced at his face in profile as he drove. Companionship? A friend? Was that enough?

  “Deep thoughts?” Linc turned at the Front Street entrance to the village.

  “Private. Making a decision.” She skipped a heartbeat as an ambulance approached, no lights flashing and siren quiet. She turned and read River County Ambulance District #3 on the side of the boxy vehicle. She kept her gaze focused on it until it turned west on the federal highway and drove out of sight. The incident cooled her skin like an out-of-place breeze. “Is that unusual?”

  “To see an ambulance?”

  “It didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry.” She called up several instances when she’d cycled out of traffic at the sound and sight of emergency vehicles.

  “Could be a transfer. Or headed back to their base.”

  “Of course.” Logic. She controlled her tongue when it wanted to object to his best-case scenario explanation.

  Five minutes later Linc turned into the farm driveway and stopped short.

  “What?” They spoke in unison and looked at each other.

  Mona gazed out the windshield and began to count police vehicles. Four, five—no, six. A final one blocked the narrow service lane beside the orchard. She opened her mouth to tell Linc to leave but no sound came out.

  He eased the van forward, pulled to the edge of the lawn, and let another sheriff’s department sedan enter the yard. Two officers emerged from the open barn door before Mona could get a count on the law enforcement moving around the place. One of them pointed to the van as if giving directions. She rubbed her arms, searching for warmth. The last time she’d talked with police her information had confirmed Matt’s opportunity to steal. Is it too late to leave?

  “Follow my lead.” Linc opened his door and stepped to the ground.

  Do I have a choice? A moment later she stood at the front bumper of the van, Linc within arm’s reach. If she’d been able to raise an arm.

  “What happened, officer?”

  “A crime.”

  Mona read “Kingman” on his name tag before he turned his attention from Linc to her. She stared back, silent and determined to stay unnoticed, until he shifted his gaze back to Linc.

  “State your name and business here this morning.”

  “Lincoln Dray. I came to work in my orchard.”

  The deputy’s expression shifted from casual to intense interest. He signaled to another officer with his left hand. The slice of concrete in her stomach shifted, pressed against her ribs. He didn’t do anything.

  “Sheriff, meet Mr. Dray.” Deputy Kingman spoke to a trim woman with insignia on her collar. “And?”

  “Mona. Mona Smith.” Her strained voice sounded foreign to her ears. She fought the urge to stand at attention under the mere gaze of the woman.

  “We have questions.” The sheriff pointed to her deputy and then Mona.

  “Come with me, Miss … Smith.” The officer consulted his notes while wrapping his words in doubt. He halted just out of comfortable earshot of Linc and the sheriff.

  Yes, the name is Smith. Do I need to spell it for you?

  “What’s your relationship with Mr. Dray?”

  He wasn’t going to waste time with pleasantries. Good. Shorter would be better. They would leave and she’d be on a bus before dark. “Friend.”

  “Do you know Daniel Larson?”

  “I’ve heard the name.”

  “And?”

  Mona crossed her arms and raised her chin another degree. What sort of mischief was the owner of the flashy truck parked a dozen yards away involved with? “I’ve never met him. Linc told me he rents the farmhouse.”

  “Have you been on this farm before today?”

  “Once.” Silence filled the gap between her and the officer, stretched to uncomfortable, and she broke it. “Yesterday.” She allowed silence to grow again until he shifted weight from one foot to the other, his pen poised above paper. “He sprayed trees. I trimmed grass.”

  “And you didn’t speak with Mr. Larson?”

  “No.” She continued with short responses, making the officer work for the information. Several questions covered their arrival and departure times until she ran out of ways to reply that she’d not checked her watch at every pause in her work. The officer gathered the approximate time Daniel’s truck arrived, and the position of the barn door when they drove away. Then he reviewed what appeared to be a list of each building, shed, and shelter on the farm, asking if she’d entered them.

  He turned to a fresh page in his notebook. “Almost done. I just need to see your identification. And we need to get your prints.”

  She moved her gaze from his hands to his eyes an
d stayed silent.

  “For elimination.”

  Without a word she pulled her State of Minnesota non-driver card out of her back jeans pocket and extended it in two fingers.

  “Is this your current address?”

  “My mail’s delivered there.” She stayed on the knife edge of truth. The odds of returning to the apartment, even to retrieve mail, dropped below those of a lightning bolt appearing in the cloudless morning sky.

  Two long minutes later, Deputy Kingman escorted her to the Crime Scene Unit van. He called out to one of the technicians that she needed to be fingerprinted.

  “What sort of crime are you investigating?” she asked, a variation of Linc’s initial question.

  “Murder. Daniel Larson is dead. His grandfather found him this morning, wrapped in a tarp like a giant egg roll in front of the orchard shed.”

  Dead? Here? She shoved her hands deep into her jeans pockets to hide their shaking. Something happened after they left the orchard yesterday. And she couldn’t stop her mind from drawing a direct line from the dead renter to Basil. She swallowed hard and prayed the River County Sheriff found evidence to solve this without another word from either her or Linc.

  “Right hand, please.”

  Mona cooperated as the evidence technician rolled her fingers over the electronic pad. She glanced back to the van in time to see Linc and the sheriff approach.

  “Print Mr. Dray next. He’s consented to boot prints and a field search of the van.” Sheriff Bergstrom inspected Mona for a long moment.

  Boots? Mona couldn’t see anything unusual about the dark brown work boots on Linc’s feet. Did the police have tracks they wanted to compare?

  “Yes, ma’am. Almost done with Ms. Smith.” The young lady rolled Mona’s left pinkie and released her hand. A moment later she returned Mona’s ID from the clip attached to the computerized fingerprint module.

  Mona moistened her lips and hesitated beside Linc. “What next?”

  “Follow directions. Leave the portable circus.” He waved one hand to indicate the controlled chaos of the farmyard.

  Chapter Nine