Hide & Find (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 3) (9 page)

“Sixty-seven days sober and counting,” she chirped.

I spit minty freshness into the sink. “And you’re still alive,” I added helpfully. Pointing out the obvious is my specialty. But I was relieved she sounded so upbeat.

“That too. Although I have serious doubts about my beauty sleep. Tarq snores like a foghorn.”

“Rough day.”

Loretta mmhmmed in agreement.

“If you need anything, call me on the number I gave you, okay? I know I said that before, but my FBI agent was here tonight. It was a close shave. So don’t pop over for a visit. I’ll come to you. Everything will be better if you remain one of my little secrets.”

Loretta giggled. “Don’t worry, darling. I have plenty to keep me very busy here for a very long time.”

I cradled the phone in my hand after I clicked it off, watching the last bubbles swirl down the sink drain. At least one person was cheerful about her prospects. I wondered how long it had been since Loretta had slept in a real house, other than her brief stay at Mayfield. As far as I knew, she’d rented a series of cheap hotel rooms and even cheaper apartments when she lived in Alameda Point, before Skip had tucked her away in the rehab facility.

I listened to my own four walls, and the pipes inside them, clank and groan as the whole mansion shifted in a constant state of adjustment to the dropping external temperature as I fell asleep.

oOo

I awoke in a clinging, creeping panic to a pitch black space — that terrifying hollowness when you know your eyes are open, but you can’t see a thing. My rapid breaths rattled in my ears.

But at least I was breathing. I took stock.

After several frantic moments of checking on the continued presence and integrity of all my limbs and finding the light switch, I realized my fright wasn’t a response to a physical threat. It was my brain’s way of reminding me of something.

CHAPTER 10

I fished through the pile of discarded clothes to find the flash drive from the safe deposit box. How could I have forgotten to check it?

Squinting blearily, I sank onto the mattress and plugged the flash drive into my laptop. The file manager opened, showing a few text files and one audio file. I clicked on the first one.

And what I read turned my world upside down — again.

I had to make sure I wasn’t dreaming and read the whole thing a second time. My husband was brilliant — scarily brilliant. Boldly, hair-raisingly, intimidatingly brilliant.

I had not signed up for this. I liked sedate, cozy, simple. Boring even sounded good at this point. I’d wanted a lifetime companion. Somebody to sleep in with on Saturday mornings, to travel with, to share my favorite books with.  None of the activities I’d imagined ever included risking my life with him.

But Skip had spectacular ambitions. I could at least give him credit for that. It was a small consolation that he had not intended for me to stumble into this mess, let alone be treading neck-deep in it. But he had prepared for the possibility.

I read the other supplemental text files quickly, then clicked on the audio file.

The warmth in Skip’s voice flooded through my soul. “Baby, if you’re hearing this, we’re married, and I’m not with you. And I’m terribly, terribly sorry. I’ve been planning this in some form or other for most of my life, and I always thought I’d execute my plan alone. But then you came along, and you’re perfect. Perfect for me. And I’m selfish. I thought maybe I could have both — I’m still hoping. But if you’ve found this, then we both know it didn’t work. Baby, please forgive me.”

I shuddered and wrapped my arms around my knees, tears streaming down my face and into my gaping mouth.

Skip’s voice continued on, giving me instructions for if he was dead and a second set of instructions for if he was alive.

This was why he’d been sending me subtle messages using unconventional methods — to prove he was still alive. And now I knew for sure there wouldn’t be a ransom call.

The wording of Matt’s comment last evening — that the FBI thought Skip might contact me directly — suddenly struck me as meaningful. They weren’t expecting a ransom call from a third party anymore either. Why? What did they know that I didn’t?

Some of Skip’s instructions were irrelevant now. Somehow, I was supposed to have met Selma and gotten this flash drive much earlier.

There was no way a scheme like Skip’s could include a foolproof set of contingency plans. It’d only work if everyone — him, me, his criminal cronies, and all law enforcement personnel — behaved completely rationally. Far too much to hope for. And it certainly hadn’t proved true in the weeks since his disappearance.

The files gave me more clarity, but they sure didn’t answer the “What’s next?” question to my satisfaction. But they did reveal some of Skip’s motives, where his line between right and wrong was drawn. That distinction wasn’t as smudged as I’d been beginning to suspect. Okay — as I had downright assumed. I really needed to talk to Loretta.

I dried my face on the sheet and stared at the laptop screen. There was one other person who might be able to help me, even though it was the middle of the night.

I dug out a cell phone and dialed. It was a little much to expect Josh Freeney to answer, so I left a short message on his voicemail. He’d been fired from the FBI for consorting with the enemy — his old buddy from college who also happened to be my husband. Of all the people I knew, Josh would be most likely to have an objective view of this new information and perhaps some helpful suggestions.

A floorboard creaked outside my door, and I froze. Had I been speaking too loudly? Echoes bounced in unexpected directions in the old mansion.

If I’d awakened Clarice from her deep slumber across the hall, she would have barged in to inform me of the time and added a lecture on the consensus of health professionals regarding the optimal sleep duration for adults.

I took a chance and murmured, “It’s okay, Emmie. You can come in.”

The knob turned, squeaking softly, and a pair of worried golden-brown eyes in a pale face peeked around the edge. “There’s a fire,” she whispered.

I scrambled out of bed. “Where? In the house?”

She shook her head. “Outside.”

“Show me.”

Emmie and I skidded down the hall in our socks. She tugged me into her bedroom and over to the window.

The mansion is shaped like a large H, and we confined most of our living to one of the sidebars, mainly to be near the kitchen hub and save heat. My bedroom was closer to the junction with the massive central hall and faced in toward the semi-enclosed courtyard that was overrun with dead, scraggly weeds. But Emmie’s room was farther along, toward the top end of the H, with a better view of the world outside our little enclave.

I leaned against the sill, my breath clouding the thin single pane of glass. Mostly it was a dull orange glow deep in the trees, but a few visible flames flickered as what appeared to be brambles flared and burned out quickly.

“Wilbur and Orville and the Terminator.” Emmie clenched the hem of my pajama top.

She was right. The fire did appear to be coming from the direction of the old calving shed where the animals were penned for the winter. I placed a hand on Emmie’s head and dialed Walt with the phone in my other hand, still warm from my call to Josh.

Walt woke quickly. He confirmed what I thought I’d remembered — that the calving shed only had a couple working external faucets, no hoses. I knew we’d always used buckets to water the animals.

I knelt next to Emmie, trying to keep my voice calm for her sake. “Wake up Clarice and get dressed, but you must stay inside. Do you understand? Clarice will tell you if she wants you to do anything. I’m going to check on the animals.”

Emmie nodded, biting her lower lip. No tears yet, but her eyes were swimming. She’d already known so much sadness. I hated the idea of dealing with the charred bodies of the potbellied pigs and goat. She must never see that.

I squeezed her shoulders and flew back to my room. I jammed my feet into my boots then tripped down the stairs, pulling on Skip’s robe as I barreled through the kitchen door.

The air outside hit my lungs like a pair of brass knuckles. It was so cold, it crackled. I sucked breaths in through my teeth, my feet pounding on the frozen ground. I couldn’t remember where I’d put the keys for Lentil. It was faster just to run.

The half moon cast enough light that I could pick out the track. Drifting fog wisps eerily collected and dispersed, swirling away from the flapping edges of my robe.

By the time I reached the shed, it was fully engulfed, the corrugated metal roof curling in on itself. Headlight beams raked across me, and Walt’s pickup lurched to a stop nearby.

Four or five of the older boys jumped out of the bed. Their clothes had been thrown on too, their hair mashed into unusual shapes. Walt sent them around the perimeter of the shed, shovels in hand. “Whistle if you need help,” he commanded.

Then he turned to me with another shovel. “Want one?”

I held out a trembling hand. The wood handle was rough, and it felt like it weighed a ton.

“No way we can extinguish the fire,” Walt hollered over the increasing roar. “Best we can do is keep it from spreading. The area around the shed is pretty clear. Smack out any cinders and watch the brush.”

“Fire department?” I asked.

I think Walt read my lips because my voice barely registered. He shook his head. “Too late.”

oOo

Walt’s predictions proved true. The shed’s remaining rotted beams snapped, and the whole structure crumpled in a heap, inciting a rush of sparks and hungry flames. But just as quickly, the  inferno died down to a blanket of embers with a few hot spots where larger chunks smoldered.

Walt found me leaning on the shovel handle, shivering uncontrollably. In Skip’s white robe, I probably stood out like a pillar of salt against the dark forest. Walt tipped our shovels against a tree and wrapped his arms all the way around me. I felt tiny inside his embrace, but his warmth was very welcome.

“You okay?” His throat rumbled against my cheek.

I tried to nod. “The animals?” I whispered.

“No sign of them.”

I moaned. What was I going to tell Emmie? She’d probably feel guilty for not noticing the fire sooner when it really was a wonder she’d noticed at all. Why had she been awake and looking out her window in the wee hours? Maybe she’d heard the voices from my room.

A spasm shook me to my core, and Walt clasped me even tighter. “Go back to the mansion,” he said. “The boys and I have this cover—”

But he was interrupted by a sharp voice calling my name. “Nora? Nora Ingram?”

She pulled up beside us, and I peeked at her over Walt’s shoulder.

“You’re okay?” she asked, the irritation still clear even though her tone softened. “Of all the idiotic—” She bent over, pressing her hands against the tops of her knees, huffing. The fur around her hood obscured her face from the side, but I only knew one person who would wear a chic, down-filled, designer parka for a jog in the woods in the middle of the night.

Of course, I’d made the sprint in a terrycloth robe and hiking boots which definitely put me at a style-statement disadvantage. Who was I to judge? I patted Walt’s chest, and he released me. “I didn’t know you were here, Violet.”

“I’m always here,” she grumbled. “These are my colleagues.” She waved an arm toward several men dressed in jeans and thick coats, gloves, and hats standing behind her. They were also billowing clouds of steam into the frosty air. “Usually unseen but present. I think you know about us.”

I nodded grimly. Special Agent Violet Burns was Matt’s partner, so I assumed the men with her were part of the FBI surveillance team. Matt had been my point of contact all along, so I hadn’t had much interaction with Violet, except if he was temporarily unavailable. I’d had no idea she was the one coordinating the company campout on Mayfield property.

“You shouldn’t be out here, exposed like this.” She clutched my arm.

I resisted her tug. “I’m out and about all the time. Why not now?”

“Skip may try to contact you,” she hissed, her fingernails digging through the plush fabric of my robe.

“By starting a fire? That’s ridiculous.” I yanked free of her grasp.

“No, no,” Violet forced a conciliatory note into her voice. “We just want you in one piece, healthy, and able to receive his message when he sends one. We can clean this up.”

I scowled. There was nothing to clean up. Ashes. Charred hunks of wood. Twisted metal. In the middle of a derelict property. A threat to no one. If left alone, the burned patch would be completely covered with blackberries by the spring.

And then it hit me — they suspected something. They were going to search for evidence.

Of what, though? Arson was completely pointless. The shed had been on the brink of collapsing before the fire. No insurance value. I almost snorted at the idea of a mobster sending me a threatening message by burning down a junky old shed. The criminal associates of Skip’s whom I had met weren’t that subtle.

I opened my mouth to object again — I hated that contrariness had become second nature — when Violet blurted, “What are
you
doing here?”

I flinched and glanced to the side. A familiar stocky form, in jeans and flannel coat — not in his usual olive drab sheriff’s uniform. It appeared Des had just rolled out of bed too.

“Ms. Burns,” Des Forbes replied, but he was watching me with amused eyes. “Happens to be my county.”

I noticed he left off the Special Agent title when he acknowledged her. Relations were not quite peachy between law enforcement agencies. I grinned at him. My sentiments exactly.

Des stretched out his arm and shook hands with Walt. “Heard you had some trouble here.”

How he heard, I had no idea, but neither was I surprised. News travels faster than proverbial wildfire in Mayfield County. Maybe Clarice had called 911 even though there really had been no point.

“It’s under control,” Violet muttered, conveniently ignoring the fact that she’d had nothing to do with containing the fire.

“Got a few deputies here. They’ll assist you,” Des continued as though he hadn’t heard her. “I had the fire department stand down since it looks like what’s done is done. How’re the boys, Walt?”

“Fine. Tired.”

“Cause?” Des asked.

Walt stuffed his hands in the deep pockets of his coat. “Wiring was from the 1940s. I had all the breakers flipped off except for one light circuit for when we came to tend the animals. Based on what we’ve found so far in the garage, which is from the same era, I’d suspect a faulty connection and a little juice still flowing where it shouldn’t have been. It’d only take one arc or a mouse chewing through the wrong wire with how old and dry the timbers were.”