Hide & Find (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 3) (15 page)

“I’d say she’s learning from the best.” I aimed a puckered grimace at Clarice through the open window and eased Lentil forward so she could pull the unit’s door closed.

“Locked and unloaded at the Six Shooter compound.” Clarice buckled her seatbelt and flashed me a top-that glance.

I groaned. “We need to change the subject.”

Woodland had all of five light-controlled intersections on the main drag through town. We hit yellows at the first three we came to, and I dutifully slowed to stops each time, making sure to keep Lentil’s nose out of the crosswalks. Nothing good would result from attracting any kind of law enforcement attention.

In the middle of the next block, a little, beat-up, algae-covered Datsun pickup zipped out of First Presbyterian’s parking lot right in front of me, and I slammed on the brakes.

“It’s Loretta and Tarq,” Emmie said, bouncing on the seat and waving frantically.

The Datsun cut the corner close, and the right rear wheel dropped off the curb. Then it swerved, tapped the brakes a few times, and sped away. Rather, I should say the driver — Loretta — did those things, but in the brief glimpse I got of her through the windshield, she didn’t make eye contact and sure appeared to be concentrating, her hands wrapped tightly around the steering wheel.

“Consuming a little sacramental wine?” Clarice muttered, her hands braced against the dashboard.

“No, actually, I think they may have been attending an AA meeting.” I gulped a breath to slow my racing heart. “And maybe that was a hint that we’re running just a tad early.”

Clarice flicked her sleeve back to check her watch and grunted. “Over there.” Her voice boomed through the cab, and she stabbed a forefinger toward a sporting goods store across the street. “I need to buy something.”

I could think of a few witty responses to that particular incongruity, but I was tired of the repartee. Maybe I was just plain tired. Too many short nights and early mornings.

Instead, I made proper use of the turn signal and executed a slow turn into yet another parking lot which was dotted with pickups in even worse condition than mine. Emmie and I straggled into the store behind the steamship that was Clarice, gawking at the merchandise.

The term ‘sporting goods’ means really different things in different parts of the country. In San Francisco, the store would have been full of equipment for youth league team sports like soccer, football, and baseball plus a few things for the parents such as hyper-expensive running shoes; moisture-wicking, color-coordinated outfits; and heart monitors on elastic armbands. But here in Woodland, ‘sporting goods’ meant guns of all shapes and lengths, stacks upon stacks of ammo boxes, knives also of all shapes and lengths, bright orange vests, and camouflage everything else.

“Don’t touch anything,” was all I could think to murmur to Emmie.

We caught up with Clarice at a counter in the back. She was having a heated discussion with a clerk about color options for ear muffs. Apparently, in this store, there was only one option — camouflage. Surprise, surprise.

“Are they big enough, do you think?” Clarice huffed, turning to me.

“Why don’t you try them on?”

She gave me a mighty scowl, but followed my suggestion. They had some sort of springy tension mechanism inside that made them one-size-fits-all, or at least close enough. They just about doubled the size of Clarice’s head, but her ears were completely covered.

“Phew.” Clarice pulled them off, and they snapped in on themselves, forming a compact ball. “Toasty. Figured Gus needs these since he insists on riding his motorcycle in this weather. And for his birding expeditions when he spends hours documenting species. Did you know he helps the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife with migration counts?”

Well, well, well. So Clarice and Gus had found the time to discuss hobbies while Gus was rendering her assistance yesterday. Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure Clarice had any hobbies, other than keeping track of me.

“Will they fit under his helmet?” I asked.

“He wears one of those beanie-style helmets that barely covers his cranium.” Clarice sniffed. “Hardly sufficient, to my way of thinking. I’ll have to nag him about that.” She nodded to the clerk. “I’ll take ‘em. What are your gift wrap options?”

The clerk stared at her as though she’d just fallen off a passing UFO.

“Never mind,” Clarice grumbled. “That paper bag will have to do.”

“Hence the beard,” I said.

Clarice squinted at me and slapped money on the counter.

“To keep his face warm while he’s riding. Plus it acts like a scarf too.” I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before, but the idea gave me the giggles.

Emmie was completely on my wavelength and joined in. Clarice just marched back through the store with her purchase tucked under her arm. Maybe my lack of sleep was making me a bit rummy.

Clarice’s delay had the desired effect. Once again the four-way junction and parking lot at Gus’s shop were devoid of traffic. We’d given Loretta and Tarq the time they’d needed to surreptitiously collect Josh from the meeting spot in the back of the empty service bay. I pictured Josh and Chet there, hunkered down amidst the compressors, wrenches, and grease while Gus kept a lookout.

Chet dashed out through the back door and dove in behind the seat while Clarice thrust the paper bag at Gus. No words were exchanged, but I could have sworn Gus’s eyes were twinkling behind all that facial hair.

CHAPTER 16

Chet was giddy with anticipation, and I had to repeatedly warn him to keep his head down.

“He knows. He knows,” Chet whispered, “where Kamala is. With that Ziggy guy. One of the men I saw at the party with Lutsenko. Josh said it’s the same guy.”

“Josh suspects,” I cautioned, “that Ziggy Beltran is involved. Your sister’s exact location will be difficult to confirm.”

“But you’ll make him tell you,” Chet insisted, “in exchange for the paintings.”

“We’re gonna try. You — we all — will have to be patient. And circumspect. Even so, it’s an extremely long shot. Do you know that term, Chet?” I replied.

“Bad odds,” he chirped from behind the seat, and I got another glimpse of his beaming face in the rearview mirror.

“Down,” I hissed.

“It’s going to work. Yes, it is,” he sing-songed, the ratty upholstery he was hiding behind doing nothing to muffle his optimism.

As soon as we reached the mansion, Clarice banished Chet to the basement and sent Emmie and me off for naps, muttering something about sleep being the only antidote for such prolonged displays of childishness.

Clarice is a stalwart, and we’d always had an excellent working relationship when she was my executive assistant. But we hadn’t lived, eaten, and, increasingly, bickered together, all while under constant stress, until recently. As usual, she was wise in decreeing a timeout.

But mine didn’t last very long. After a fleeting catnap, I snuck out of the mansion and set out for a little restorative time among the trees. Plus the man at the end of my trek who deserved a long overdue debriefing.

As he is wont to do, Eli found me while I was still in the clearing surrounding the mansion. The coat I’d given him for Christmas was zipped snuggly up under his chin, but one of his boots trailed an untied lace.

“How are Wilbur and Orville?” I asked.

“Cranky.”

“Are you keeping up on your schoolwork?” I cringed at the motherliness in my tone. But Eli is known to shirk academics — or rather, to find other forms of education much more expedient.

He shrugged.

I tousled his already disheveled fawn-colored hair. “Thanks for helping Latrelle, Purcel, and Odell settle in. I know you’re giving up some of your space for them.”

He smiled up at me with those crystal-clear, ocean-blue eyes and a nod of acknowledgment. Already he was the strong, silent type. And his new, big front teeth were straightening as they grew in. Pretty soon, the rest of his body would become proportionate — probably way too fast for my taste.

“Wanna see the garage?” Eli asked. “The wall studs are in, and there’s a ditch digger machine.”

Major attractions, indeed. So we took a scenic detour, and I was amazed to see just how fast the building had been blocked into dormitory rooms with a generous kitchen and abundant bathroom facilities. Eli gave me a point-by-point tour of all the pipes sticking up out of the floor with details about what each one was for — cold, hot, drains, vents. I left him perched on a mound of dirt, studiously observing the man who was operating the ditch digger, and made my way to the bunkhouse.

Walt was in his tiny cubbyhole of an office just off the boys’ schoolroom.

I knocked on the doorjamb. “You’ve been thinking about the garage renovation project for a while, haven’t you?”

Walt glanced up and grinned. “I might have had a set of plans drawn up, just in case.”

I dropped into the chair opposite him. “Looks good. Are you ready for more surprises?”

Walt fixed me with his disconcertingly intense blue gaze and stretched out a long leg to nudge the door closed. “Maybe.”

And so I told him about the Laotian family in the mansion basement who had previously occupied the garage and then the calving shed. In my recounting, I realized just how doggedly trouble seemed to follow Chet around. I also told Walt about the paintings — not specifics, just that they might be originals or not, might be from museum heists or not, might incite the revenge-based interest of a certain organized crime kingpin or not. It was a flourishing set of what-ifs.

“But you don’t have to worry,” I finished, “because whatever happens, it won’t occur on Mayfield property. It won’t affect the boys or you at all.”

I couldn’t tell Walt about Josh because Josh was running an even bigger risk than I was and was exposed more than enough already with Clarice, Tarq, and Loretta also knowing about his involvement. Unlike me, Josh had a shot at respectability and redemption if our scheme worked out perfectly.

Fat chance. But better than no chance.

At my second or third sentence, Walt’s brows had drawn together, and they stayed in a tight, furrowed line throughout my monologue. Now he added a frown to the mix and crumpled a little strip of paper into a ball which he rolled around on the desktop.

“Do you know how many people are here, at Mayfield, right now?” he finally asked.

I shook my head.

“Me neither, and I’m supposed to. It’s not because I can’t count the boys or the construction workers or because you don’t know how many people are living in the mansion. It’s because we also have a contingent of federal agents camping out in the woods. You ever think about just letting them do their jobs?”

“All the time,” I murmured. “But whenever I think honestly about my situation, the more convinced I am that waiting is a disadvantage, maybe even harmful — waiting for the FBI to use legal methods of evidence collection, waiting for Skip’s former business associates to find me, waiting for stuff to happen. It’s impossible to be useful when you’re always waiting.”

I reached across the desk and took hold of Walt’s hand so he would stop fretting with the paper ball. “At least if I’m the one shaking the tree, I get to see which bad apples fall.”

“But you gotta dodge.”

“I have a safety net.”

“Am I part of that?” Walt interlaced his fingers with mine.

I smiled into his eyes. “The good you’re doing here at Mayfield, the boys, Emmie — all this means more to me than anything. You’re my refuge.”

“Don’t forget to come home.”

“Never.”

oOo

And then the real waiting began. The kind of waiting that crushes your soul — the kind I’d been trying so hard to avoid. But this particular waiting was a nasty byproduct of our best-laid plans.

Josh’s proposal — the one Tarq, Loretta, and I had adopted without reservation and Clarice had amended herself into the moment she heard about it — wasn’t complicated. But it was brazen, bold, crazy. Therefore, there weren’t a lot of details to second guess or agonize over, so I worried that I didn’t have enough to worry about, as if somehow having more to worry about would have felt more productive, or satisfying, or useful in a horridly twisted way.

Instead, I felt keenly how intensely inadequate for the situation I was and threw myself into gopher work at the construction site. Days went by — a week of painful days marked only by sore muscles and sweat. A week that stretched like a century.

I’m masterful with a broom, decent with a wheelbarrow, and dysfunctional but well-intentioned with everything else. The paid workers — the ones who knew what they were doing — were generous in tolerating me and even offered a few pointers here and there.

I’d left my phone — the original one that the FBI had tapped and quite possibly diverted into an active listening device as well — in the freezer. Clarice shoved it around every time she dug out packages of frozen vegetables or ice cream so those listening wouldn’t feel neglected. She occasionally took it out, let it acquire a signal, and bumped the buttons to check for messages too. Nothing.

Not that I was expecting any contact on that phone. Skip probably knew better at this point, especially since he’d already proven adept at evading all the law enforcement agencies on his trail. And I really didn’t want to know if the FBI had any whiffs of Josh’s and my simple, if shaky, strategy. I was dead set on a course of mutual ignorance with them if at all possible.

I could only imagine what kind of tense sitting-tight was going on over at Tarq’s place. I called Loretta every day, but only received the usual cheerful platitudes in her updates. She probably wasn’t going to admit they were all getting on each other’s nerves on top of the forced cabin fever on Josh’s part.

“Busy as a beaver.”

I jumped at the quiet voice and dumped the contents of my dustpan on the floor, right where I’d just swept.

“Got something on your mind?” Dwayne asked.

I gave him a weak smile.

He clipped a tape measure to his belt, tucked his clipboard under his arm and leaned a shoulder comfortably against the freshly mudded Sheetrock wall. He’d changed drastically from when Bodie, Thomas and I had dragged him out of a raging mountain stream, half-drowned and unconscious, a few weeks ago. In fact, he’d changed even from the first time I’d met him, when he’d saved my life, and Eli’s, from an unknown, knife-wielding messenger sent by the drug lord, Giuseppe Ricardo Solano.

Dwayne seemed less stooped, less frail, just as old and raggedy, but invigorated with a sense of purpose and even, perhaps, authority.

“Secrets don’t make the best companions.” His brown eyes were clouded with cataracts, but he clearly didn’t miss much. He’d lived so long — I didn’t even know how long — as a hermit that I’d assumed he was also really good at minding his own business.

I still didn’t have an answer for him.

“But you’re talking to Tarq. He’s your lawyer.” It was a statement, not a question.

I nodded.

“That’s good.” Dwayne stroked his chin through his long, scraggly beard. “I’ve been talking to Tarq for a few decades myself — confidentially, of course. He’ll sort you out.”

I’d known the two men were acquaintances. But I hadn’t assumed it was in a professional capacity. I’d figured it was possible Dwayne, as a recently reformed bootlegger, had been one of the suppliers of the alcohol that had made Tarq’s liver a hospitable starting point for the cancer that was now raging though his body.

I finally found my voice. “I didn’t know you needed legal advice.”

“Didn’t you?” Dwayne tilted his head. “I thought for sure you saw that rucksack under my cot when you fetched a blanket for Bodie.”

The night Dwayne had found Bodie wandering around in a meth-induced haze, and we, Walt in particular, had informally adopted him. In a way, Bodie also owed his life — definitely his current quality of life and the fact that he wasn’t hallucinating in a gutter somewhere — to Dwayne.

My mouth fell open, and Dwayne chuckled. “Thought so.”

The rucksack stuffed full of cash. I hadn’t told a soul except Clarice, and she’s as tight as Fort Knox with other people’s information.

“Just wanted you to know that if I could spend that, I’d be using it to help you with this.” He waved a hand at the new walls around us. “I always wanted to stick it to the man, if you know what I mean. But it looks like you’re doing it much more effectively than I ever could. You keep it up.” He gave me a short nod and straightened. “And keep on talking to Tarq.”

I stared after Dwayne as he hitched his jeans up on his narrow hips and skirted around a trio of protruding pipes on his way out.

But the phone in my pocket rang, and I just about jumped out of my boots — again. The phone that had been glued to my person ever since the clandestine meeting at Tarq’s cabin. The phone only Josh had the number for.

“Yeah?” I breathed.

“We’re on. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I gulped. “Are we ready? He agreed?”

“Yes, no, and yes, in that order.” Josh chuckled. “He fell for my hints about Ziggy Beltran. Said he’d been suspecting the same. When you’re a criminal, you can never trust your colleagues. They’re both coming.”

“Wow.”

“Doubt is a beautiful thing.” Was that a trace of giddiness in Josh’s voice? I wondered how long it had been since he’d participated in an undercover operation. Stress does bizarre things to otherwise sane people.

He quickly sobered. “But he knows it’s you. He’d already pieced together that Skip must have been the mastermind behind the theft, but he also knows Skip’s been incommunicado since your wedding. The criminal underground has a rumor network that far outstrips anything on this side of the law. Logical conclusion is that you’re the one calling the shots now. He definitely has more patience than I would have given him credit for.”

“Why tomorrow?” I blurted.

“The sooner it happens, the less exposure he faces. The less time we have to set up a double cross. Or so he thinks. I’d do the same if I were him. We wanted a weekday. This’ll work, Nora.”

“He must be driving through the night.”

“All the better.”

“And he believes Ziggy was complicit in the theft?” I asked.