Bait & Switch (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 1) (19 page)

I grabbed a towel and handed it to CeCe. “Help Clarice?” I asked with a wink.

CeCe scooted off her chair with a broad smile.

Outside, Walt said, “I’m really glad to see you. I wasn’t sure — we didn’t know — I wish I could have prevented—”

“Shhh.” I turned to him. “No regrets, no what-ifs. It’s over, and I was spared.” I shook my head. “I don’t know why, but I was.”

“I know why.” Walt tipped up my chin so he was looking straight into my eyes. “You have too many people to take care of. Eli said so, and you know he’s never wrong.”

His cheeks were chapped and flushed, probably from being on the mansion roof in this cold weather, but his eyes were happy, even sparkly in the light cast from the kitchen window.

“So I can stay at Mayfield?” I asked.

“Where else would you flee, but to our old bastion of refuge? I’m afraid you’re stuck with us.”

But I didn’t feel stuck. I felt at home — right here among friends — with Walt the practical poet standing so close I could feel the warmth radiating off him. 

Walt’s tone changed. “We have a little problem.”

“What?”

“Come see.” He slipped his hand over mine and led me to Bertha.

Three boys — Thomas, Dill and Eli — were crowded in the cab with a limp but lumpy black plastic garbage bag spread across their laps.

“We found it—”

“No, I found it—”

“Maybe because we haven’t taken the garbage to the dump in a while.”

“But how did it get out to the Terminator?”

“I think Orville did it—”

“Or Wilbur. You know he roots through the trash when he can.”

“Maybe he snuck into the mansion again.”

I held up a hand. “What’s in the bag?”

Dill cautiously peeled back the opening to reveal, in the dim overhead light of the cab, a hideous, hairy pelt of familiar mushroom color.

The Margaret Thatcher lookalike headpiece. I gasped.

“Is she gonna be mad?” Eli whispered. “Because the Terminator was chewing on it, and it’s kind of messed up.”

‘Kind of’ was an understatement. I lifted the snarled, saliva-ed hairball with just my fingertips.

And then I was giggling uncontrollably. “No,” I said, “Clarice is not going to mind. But I think it’d be better if we didn’t tell her.” I made eye contact with each solemn boy, then winked. “Let’s just pretend this never happened.”

SNEAK PEEK

at the next installment in the Mayfield mystery series

GRAB & GO

A Mayfield Mystery — book #2

Jerusha Jones

When Nora Ingram-Sheldon learns her fugitive criminal husband had (has?) his crooked fingers in even more May County, Washington businesses, and that his involvement puts her new friends and neighbors at risk, what can she do but go on the hunt — for answers, for culprits, and for cracks she can widen in his many-tentacled money laundering enterprise?

But an omnipresent FBI security detail puts a damper on her movements, plus she’s supposed to be a good example for the band of misfit boys in foster care at Mayfield’s poor farm.

Maybe undercover is the way to go. Can she sneak away from her faithful executive assistant, Clarice, and Walt Neftali, the boys’ guardian?

The tricky part is finding and putting her husband’s gangster clients out of commission before they do the same to her.

CHAPTER 1

If you want to bump into anyone in my small town, you just go shopping. Guaranteed you’ll meet someone you know at the general store and have a shot at blowing a good hour in gossipy conversation, in case you don’t have anything else to do.

Hank was just the man I was hoping to see because I wanted the scoop on how his beautiful wife, Sidonie, and brand new twin boys were faring. We hadn’t talked to them in a couple weeks, figuring they needed all the sleep they could get.

But Hank looked worse than I expected. Lithe and swarthy, with piercing dark eyes and a sort of restrained energy — the kind of man you imagine could break a wild stallion in one ride. He’d clamp onto the beast and wrangle it into submission without ever uttering a word.

But pouches the color of bruises hung below his eyes, and his formerly smooth cheeks had several loose creases. A few gray strands — definitely new — stood out in contrast to the rest of his jet black hair.

“Nora.” He gripped my elbow so hard it hurt. “I must speak to you.” He whispered hoarsely, his eyes cast in the direction of Etherea Titus’s bottom as she bent over a box of Wrangler jeans, sorting out the boys’ sizes I’d ordered.

His watchfulness wasn’t lust — no one who’s seen Sidonie would ever think that — it was a look of wariness. Etherea, as proprietress of the general store, is the rumor hub in town. Although I’ve never known her to share something that caused harm.

I frowned at Hank. He’s always serious, but this aura of caution was abnormal. “Sure,” I whispered back.

“Outside. When you’re finished.” He gestured to my pile of purchases on the counter and slipped out the door.

“Whew.” Etherea straightened and plopped an armload of jeans on top of the three cases of canned tomatoes that were shoring up the rest of my haul. “It’s like you won the lottery or something. You’re spoiling those boys.”

“Not possible.” I grinned. “Just making sure they’re warm and not hungry.”

Etherea emitted a sympathetic grunt and started ringing up my order. “At the rate they’re growing, you’re fighting a losing battle. How’s Bodie?” Her eyes were fixed on the cash register keys, her work-worn fingers jabbing away, but one shaggy salt and pepper eyebrow was angled my direction. I think the woman can hear through every pore in her body.

“Quiet. Eats a lot. Works hard.”

Etherea nodded. “Probably the best he’s been treated in his entire life. He’ll blossom. I always thought those Ramsay kids were smart.” She clucked softly. “Pity.”

“Well, if you see any other loose ones, send them my way.”

“Gladly.” Etherea tipped her head back and hollered her husband’s name in a manner that would win a cow-calling contest.

Bob Titus appeared, wheeling a hand truck from the backroom. He was clad in a flannel shirt that was an exact match with his wife’s. I haven’t figured this out yet — why the store owners dress identically, but they do. Gray, cobalt and white plaid today, which certainly suited the partially cloudy and bitterly cold weather.

I bundled the squishable items into tote bags, and Bob followed behind with the stackables. Bob’s a master packer, so I stood to the side, watching him expertly puzzle-fit what seemed like two carloads of groceries into the back of Clarice’s Subaru station wagon.

Hank’s beat-up blue pickup was in the parking lot, but it was empty. I kept glancing around for him. There are not many places one can go in this single four-way stop town.

I thanked Bob and made a show of digging through my purse for some necessity while he strolled back into the store.

Hank’s cowboy boots crunched on the gravel as he stepped out from behind the propane tank refilling station and came toward me.

I tossed my purse in the car and met him at the back of his pickup. “What’s wrong?”

“Have you heard from your husband lately?”

I blinked a few times, mainly to reset my reality. Sometimes, when things are going well, especially when I’m busy helping with the boys’ camp, I forget that I’m married — still married, however briefly — to a fugitive criminal who’s left me in the lurch.

I shook my head. I’ve not heard from Skip since the first evening of our honeymoon. He did send a gigantic bouquet of roses several weeks back, but that’s it — no verbal communication.

“Did you know I work for him, indirectly?” Hank shielded his eyes from a brief but bright sunray that slanted through the clouds. “He owns the freight terminal I manage. Just came across his name on the property tax records.”

Maybe someday I won’t be shocked by how many enterprises Skip has his crooked fingers in, but for now I stood there with my mouth open.

“Surprised me too. The man who hired me last year left after just a few months without passing along much information. Paychecks are processed by some company in California. I was digging through the records because something’s going on. I don’t like it, Nora.” The muscles along Hank’s jaw rippled. “The value of the freight coming in doesn’t match what’s going out. Some shipments more than others. Bills of lading have been doctored. I think some of the stuff’s fenced.”

“Have you talked to the police?”

“Thought I’d talk to you first. Because of Skip’s connections—”

He didn’t have to finish the sentence. A few of my husband’s business associates — of the drug cartel variety — had paid a visit recently.

I gnawed the inside of my cheek. “What kind of stuff?”

“Electronics, clothing, designer perfume and cosmetics — those items are not uncommon, not unusual for truckers along the way to turn a blind eye to that type of fraud. But yesterday it was baby formula. Nora, if there’s not a valid chain of custody from manufacturer to retailer, who knows what’s actually inside those containers? Could be anything.”

All the worry of a father with two baby boys and a sweet little girl at home pulsed through Hank’s tense body. Baby formula. I sank onto the pickup’s bumper.

“I held up the load,” Hank continued, “but I can only do that for a maximum of forty-eight hours or we’ll lose the contract and any chance of finding out who’s behind this.”

Something zinged past my head, felt rather than heard. Then more missiles, and the propane tanks started pinging.

I’ve spent enough time in the rough parts of San Francisco to know that sound.

I football tackled Hank around his middle and drove him to the ground. He didn’t need my help, though — he was already crumpling as I grabbed him.

I landed hard on my hands and knees in the gravel, straddling Hank. His face was gray under the tan, almost waxy.

“Nora—” he rasped.

Bullets scattered stones around us, and I flattened on top of him, hooking his head in the crook of my arm. Giant knobby tires spun across the parking lot, and I glimpsed an older Ford pickup, an oxidized red color, pulling a tight u-turn. The passenger hung out the window, gun raised, his last shots going wild. Then the truck roared away, ignoring the stop sign, headed west.

But one shot had found its mark. Hank’s shirt was soaked with blood.

I screamed for Etherea.

NOTES & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Woodland and Longview are both real cities along the I-5 corridor in southwest Washington State. However, I have taken tremendous liberties with spacing and locations, and all the retail establishments and institutions, including county government, described in the Mayfield series are entirely fictional and placed for the convenience of storytelling. If you decide to visit the area, though, I can promise you will find just as many trees, mountains, backroads, and neighborly folks — and as much rain — as described.

Profound thanks to the following people who gave their time and expertise to assist in the writing of this book:

Debra Biaggi and BJ Thompson, beta readers extraordinaire.

Sergeant Fred Neiman, Sr. and all the instructors of the Clark County Sheriff’s Citizens’ Academy. The highlights had to be firing the Thompson submachine gun and stepping into the medical examiner’s walk-in cooler. Oh, and the K-9 demonstration and the officer survival/lethal force decision making test. And the drug task force presentation with identification color spectrum pictures and the — you get the idea.

I claim all errors, whether accidental or intentional, solely as my own.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I live in a small town in the west end of the Columbia River Gorge. When I grow up, I fully intend to be a feisty old lady. In the meantime, I regularly max out my library's lending limit, have happily declared a truce with the clover in the lawn, but am fanatical about sealing up cracks in my old house, armed with a caulking gun. Due to the number of gaps I have yet to locate, however, I have also perfected my big spider shriek.

I love wool socks, Pink Lady apples with crunchy peanut butter, feather pillows, scenery of breathtaking grandeur, and weather just cool enough to require a sweater, all of which are plentiful in the Pacific Northwest. I am eternally grateful to have escaped the corporate world with its relentless, mind-numbing meetings and now write (or doodle or fantasize or cogitate or stare out the window or whatever you want to call it) full time.

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