Bait & Switch (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 1) (4 page)

I dug through my purse and pulled out my wallet while the woman rang up the items by punching keys — no barcode scanner here. I flipped through my credit card selection, trying to decide which one to use. I carried a couple company cards and one foundation-issued card,  but I still had my personal Bank of America Visa which I slapped on the glass-topped counter over the slide-out tray of scratch-off tickets.

The woman looked distinctly uncomfortable. The corner of her mouth twitched. “We don’t take plastic. Just cash. Or a check if it’s not out of state.”

“Oh.” I darted a glance at Clarice who was also shocked into open-mouthed silence — a rare occurrence.

We both dove back into our purses hunting for the green stuff. We came up with a few crumpled bills but nowhere near enough.

“Looks like you’re buying necessities,” the woman said.

“Up the road about twenty minutes.” I pointed, as if that was helpful. “Walt — um, Walt Neftali works there, and there’s a boys’ camp.”

“Oh, you’re staying at the poor farm. Hope they came through the storm last night okay. I’ll start an account for you. Name?”

I provided the details and signed her form. “When do I pay?” I stretched to the side and snagged a few packages of cookies off a nearby display. I shoved them into the grocery lineup still waiting to be tallied, pretending I didn’t see Clarice’s scowl.

“End of the month, or thereabouts. I’m Etherea Titus, by the way. Own this place with my husband, Bob. Pleased to meetcha.” She wrote our total on the account form and shoved four bulging paper sacks across the counter.

Back in the car, it took me a few minutes of flying trees and dashed yellow line whizzing under the fender so fast it appeared solid to gather my thoughts. “Do you want to talk about this?”

“No.” Clarice polished off the last of a banana and stuffed the peel in the cup holder in the Subaru’s console.

“My husband of short duration is missing. He may or may not be alive. He may or may not be on the FBI’s most wanted list. I’m waiting for a phone call demanding ransom. My current residence is a poor farm.” I ticked each problem on my fingers. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll have the right to stay there — and then what? I may or may not have access to any money. I hope Etherea isn’t disappointed at the end of the month, but I’d pay my last penny just to get some answers.” I bit my lip at the reemergence of a thought that had been nagging me, and I turned toward Clarice. “What if I’m under suspicion too?”

Clarice tore open a Clif bar while steering with her knee. “You’re right. It can’t possibly get worse. But you’ve got me. That counts on the plus side.” She swerved back into the right lane and stuffed the end of the energy bar in her mouth.

From the depths of my purse, my phone rang. Heartbeat in overdrive, I bent in half and rummaged until I snagged the phone.

I groaned when I saw the caller ID. “My mother.”

“What?” Clarice screeched. “For all she knows you’re still on your honeymoon. You didn’t call her, did you?” She grabbed the phone and tossed it over her shoulder into the backseat. “You have enough problems.”

“What if it’s about Dad?” I stretched my arm between the seats.

“Stop.” Clarice smacked my leg. “Listen to the message later. Then decide if you should call her back.”

I sighed. She was right. Describing my mother as high-maintenance would be a compliment compared to some of the other things I could say. And if Dad had had another episode, it was too late already.

“The way I see it — on all those points you listed — we’re waiting. I don’t know what you could do to make anything better. Agreed?” Clarice shoved the wrapper next to the banana peel and daintily wiped the corners of her mouth of any errant lipstick.

I pressed my fingertips to my forehead. “So we’re camping — indefinitely.”

“Might not be so bad. I picked the remotest of Skip’s properties. No one will bother us. We’ll get the call. And in the meantime you’ll do what you can to keep the car wash business running.” She slowed and pulled into the indentation to our secret gate.

I peered hard at the sentry trees. I was going to have to establish landmarks in my mind, or I wouldn’t be able to make a grocery run by myself. Self-sufficiency was suddenly of the utmost importance.

“I forgot.” Clarice pointed a burgundy-tipped finger at the glove compartment. “I brought one of those wi-fi hot spot thingies. We’ll be connected, even if we are in the boonies.”

We bounced through the gully, and a few of the larger rocks were starting to look familiar. I wondered how hard it would be to get a road grader out here. Probably would need a backhoe first.

The main house came into sight, as did a navy blue sedan parked next to my Tahoe. It was the kind that police use — a big, beefy thing with black wheel rims and a push bar bolted to the front bumper. It had U.S. Government license plates.

“You know what I said about things not getting worse?” Clarice muttered. “I take that back.”

CHAPTER 6

Clarice guided the Subaru in a slow roll past the government sedan. “Empty,” she rasped in her lowest tone which is several decibels above a stage whisper.

We were both slouched in our seats gangster-style, straining to see out the Subaru’s windows and through the government sedan’s tinted windows without appearing as though we cared in the least.

“Which means he’s already searching the place,” she continued. “Should we make a run for it?”

“Why delay the inevitable? I need coffee.”

Clarice parked, and I scooted out of the station wagon, hauling a grocery sack with me. Just as I reached the kitchen door, it swung open.

A tall, broad-shouldered man filled the opening. He held a screwdriver in one hand and a pair of pliers in the other. Big hands. He held the tools as though he knew what to do with them. As though they had weapon capabilities.

I jumped back.

Clarice let out a grunt when I landed on her foot.

I dropped the sack and grabbed her arm. My toes dug in for a track start, muscles poised to launch into a full sprint.

“Wait! Wait.” The man held his arms wide as if to prove he was harmless. “It’s not what you think.”

“You wanna know what I think?” Clarice growled.

A short smile flitted across his face. “Um, no.” He tucked the tools in the back pockets of his jeans and returned his hands where we could see them. “I’m Matt Jarvis. Noticed your power was out. Checked your breakers and the grounding on a few of these old outlets. You’ll be safe to plug in small appliances now.”

“Coffee?” My voice came out squeaky.

His hazel-eyed gaze took a long time, traveling from the top of my head all the way down to my feet and back up to my face. He didn’t stop and leer at any particular spots, though, didn’t seem to notice my lip scar. He gave a curt nod and turned.

“Well, well, well,” Clarice muttered. “Our tax dollars at work.”

“Be nice,” I whispered as I knelt beside her to collect the stray groceries.

“I doubt this is a social call. We need to get you a lawyer.”

“Freddy?” The contents of the paper sack bulged behind a few growing holes. I clasped it against my chest.

“Might as well.” Clarice balanced a couple tuna cans under my chin. “Go entertain our gentleman caller, and I’ll see if I can wake the dead.”

The pungent, comforting scent of freshly ground coffee beans filled the kitchen. Matt tipped a small electric grinder and dumped the grounds into a stainless steel French press.

“At least the kitchen is well-equipped.” I nodded toward the French press.

“It’s mine,” Matt said. “Part of my emergency kit. How’d you sleep?” He glanced pointedly at the tabletop nest of rumpled clothing that still bore my body-shaped hollow.

I scowled. “Fine.” I pushed a corner clear and started unloading the sack.

“That was a sneaky move — the flight plan change while en route. A few of my superiors aren’t very happy with you. They pulled me off vacation to be your welcoming committee, so I’m not very happy either.”

I thunked a can of chili on the table. “You want me to be sorry? My husband is missing. He might even be dead. I’m waiting for a ransom phone call. On a misery scale of one to ten, I think I win.” I jabbed my hand back in the sack. Something thin and hard scraped my fingers and jammed under my wedding ring. I sucked in a sharp breath and pulled out the can opener stuck to my hand like a blood-sucking leech. I turned my back to Matt and pressed my hand into my stomach, trying to pry the tool loose.

“Let me see.” Matt cleared a bigger space on the corner of the table. “Sit.” He pushed me back until I bumped the edge and scooted up onto the tabletop.

My finger was already red and swelling against the constraint of the ring plus the can opener handle. I scrunched my eyes closed against the pain. If the ring hadn’t been too big in the first place, this wouldn’t have happened.

The kettle on the stove warbled a faint whistle.

Matt pressed my wrist against my thigh, and I groaned.

“Don’t look,” he said as he rustled through the paper sack. Then he started rubbing something cool and slimy on my finger, massaging it into the spaces around my ring. The kettle’s whistle escalated to a scream. Then a yank, and the can opener came free.

My eyes flew open, and I peeked down — at my hand smeared with minty fresh blue gel. “Toothpaste?”

Matt grinned, and I found myself grinning back into those hazel eyes.

“It was handy.” He dropped my wedding ring in my right palm and moved across the room to snap off the gas burner.

“Which agency are you with?” I cranked the kitchen faucet and rubbed my hands under the stream of frigid water.

“FBI.” He must have heard my groan as he pulled a couple mugs from a cupboard and blew dust out of them. “You have a problem with that?”

“I was hoping for a little variety. CIA. IRS. Why not make it a party?” I balanced my ring on the windowsill above the sink then grabbed one of Skip’s t-shirts and dried my hands on it.

“I don’t think you realize what kind of trouble you’re in.” Matt was suddenly close — very close, and staring hard into my eyes. It was a principal’s-office glare, intimidating and nothing romantic about it, but I flushed like a giddy schoolgirl. Heat zipped straight up my neck to the roots of my hair in nothing flat.

“I didn’t do anything,” I breathed.

“We’ll leave that for the grand jury. But prison would be pleasant compared to what might happen if any of your husband’s associates assume you have information they want. You know Felix Gonzalo Ochoa?”

I shook my head.

“Ziggy Beltran? Martin Zimmerman also known as Mart the Shark? Fat Al Canterino?”

My head hurt, I was shaking it so hard.

“Well, you don’t want to. Part of my job is to make sure any contact these guys might have with you is civil.” Matt pulled the damp t-shirt out of my clenched fist and replaced it with a mug of coffee.

“Witness protection?” I whispered.

“What have you witnessed?” At my blank look, Matt continued, “Nope. I need the contact info for all of your husband’s relatives.”

“Good luck with that.” Clarice snorted from the doorway. “He was essentially a foundling. A flaky biological mother who never took responsibility for him, and that’s it.”

I frowned at her. It wasn’t Skip’s fault he got a rough start in life. Part of what drove him so hard to succeed was the desire to prove he wasn’t tied to his roots. “I do have his mother’s phone number. Skip told her about the wedding, but she chose not to attend.”

The kitchen door creaked open again behind Clarice. She reached back and slammed it shut. “Everything around here’s falling apart. Figures,” she huffed and thumped her purse — the size of a toaster oven — on the table. She pulled out her bulging, old-school Day-Timer. “Loretta was probably so sloshed she couldn’t stand up on the big day. Her no-show has nothing to do with you.”

Clarice’s impression of my mother-in-law was obtained from one brief meeting. Loretta showed up at the foundation office one day while I was on a trip to review an orphanage in Argentina. According to Clarice, she was mostly incoherent and mumbling and reeked of alcohol. She’d made obvious efforts with her clothing and makeup but was in no condition to drive and had to be escorted into a taxi. She’d given her address as a Holiday Inn Express in Alameda Point.

I know Skip supports his mother. I’ve seen the checks — it’s not a secret. But I don’t think he wants us to become best friends.

“Let me call her — please?” I reached for the note Clarice had scribbled from her Day-Timer and glanced at Matt. “There’s no way she’d be able to pay a ransom, so I’ll just tell her to call me if she hears anything.”

Matt didn’t look happy about my request, but he gave a brief nod after a moment’s hesitation.

Clarice helped herself to a mug of coffee while I dialed. I bit my lip, listening to the ringing on Loretta’s end. I was on the verge of panic about having to leave a message when a faint “hello?” sounded.

“Loretta?” I gulped a quick breath. “It’s Nora. Nora Ingram, uh, Sheldon.” Saying my new last name still felt awkward.

“Darling, how are you? Is Skip behaving? I miss him.”

“Um—” I bent over the phone and squeezed my eyes shut.

“Oh, I know he is,” Loretta continued. She sounded surprisingly light and articulate. “My best boy. Do you know what he did? He found this nice place for me to stay. Of course I can’t have a drink here, not even one tiny sip, but the food is fabulous, and the staff is amazing. They come and tell me when it’s time for the next activity. No chance to rest. Group therapy sessions, tai chi, spa treatments from sunup to sundown.”

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Something Springs. Crystal Springs? Certainty Springs? Or maybe Serendipity Solstice — Sunrise Something. Oh dear,” Loretta sighed. “I’m terrible at names. Wait. It’s embroidered on my robe.” Soft fumbling came through the line, then she said, “Serenity Springs Spa. Three S’s. I should remember that.”

It sounded like a high-end detox place. The word ‘spa’ is commonly a Californian euphemism for a rehab facility.

“Darling? I have to go. Andre is waving at me. It’s time for my paraffin dip. Call again, okay, honey?” Loretta hung up.

I balanced the phone in my palm and sagged against the edge of the table.

“You didn’t tell her,” Matt blurted, his jaw clenched.

“She sounded happy. And she didn’t ask — she just assumed—” I shook my head. “I don’t have the heart to worry her until I know for sure. Is there a chance Skip hid her in a safe place before — before this incident?” My voice trailed into a whisper. “Was he planning this?”

Matt’s eyes narrowed. “Where is she?”

I gave him the name of the spa. “If she’s safe, let’s just leave her alone. Maybe it’ll work this time.”

“This time?” Matt took the paper with Loretta’s number on it and made a few notes.

“Four, by my count,” Clarice said. “Every six months or so. She usually lasts about ten days, but her record in one treatment center is two months.”

“So we have time,” I added. “Please?” I touched Matt’s sleeve. “Maybe we can figure things out, find Skip, and she doesn’t have to know. She’s so fragile, and he’s all she has.”

Matt stared hard at me again, searching for something. What did he want to see? I glanced away.

He inhaled deeply. “We will figure it out. But finding your husband?” He raised my chin with his index finger, forcing eye-contact. “Don’t hold your breath. You won’t find much on Google about those men I mentioned, but what is there is interesting reading.” He dropped a business card on the table beside me. “I’ll be back.”