The Cats that Stole a Million (The Cats that . . . Cozy Mystery Book 7) (5 page)

Chapter Seven

On his way to see his daughter, Stevie Sanders stopped in a small, eastern Kentucky town to get gas.  His half-brother, Dave, was riding shotgun.  Getting out of the truck, Stevie asked, “How much farther is it?  It’s hard to tell with snow on the ground.”

“A few miles.  I’ll direct ya.”

Stevie laughed.  “Dave, I have a GPS.”

“Ah, your GPS sucks.  It got us lost three times.”

Stevie threw his hands up.  “Yep, you’re right.”

He got out, filled the truck’s tank with gas, then cursed when the machine was out of receipt paper.

He opened the truck door, “Hey, bro, wanna get out and stretch your legs?  I’ve got to go in and get a receipt.”

“Who cares?  I never get my receipts.  When did you get so fussy?”

“Ain’t sayin’.”

As soon as Stevie cleared the gas station door, the man behind the counter recognized him. “Stevie, is that you?  Man, do you look different.  Cut your hair?”

“Howdy, Clyde.  How’s business been in these parts?”

“Not too good with the new interstate opening, but I can’t complain.”

“I’ve started an electrical business in Erie, Indiana.”

“That’s great,” then Clyde’s voice changed to concern. “I reckon you’re here to pay your respects.”

Stevie gave a concerned look. “Who died?”

“You ain’t heard?”

“No, Erie’s a long way from here.”

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell ya.  Darlene’s dead, man.  Died of an overdose about three days ago.  Funeral was today, but buddy, you missed it.”

Stevie didn’t wait for Clyde to give him any more bad news or print the receipt.  He ran to the truck and jumped in.  Firing up the engine, he peeled out of the gas station parking lot.

“What the hell’s goin’ on?” Dave asked, barely having time to get back in and buckle up.

“Darlene’s dead.  Overdose.”

“Oh, man.  That ain’t right.”

“Funeral was today.”

“We had no way of knowin’.”

“I’m gittin’ Salina.  I don’t need any lawyer stuff.  I’m her father. I’m taking her back to Erie.”

“Slow down.  You don’t want the law around here to pull you over.”

Stevie slowed down, looking for backwoods signs.  There weren’t any road signs to the “holler.”  If he’d asked for a refresher course direction from Clyde, he knew the man would have explained in terms of local landmarks, like “where the big wreck was in ’97,” or to “turn at the tree that was hit by lightning.” 

“Right there,” Dave said.  “Dammit, if you don’t slow down, you’re gonna miss it.”

“I did slow down,” Stevie complained, turning off the highway onto a snow-covered, rutted road.

Dave said, “Turn your brights on.”

“Damn, talk about backseat driver.”

“Looks like lots of cars have been down this road.”

“Yeah, explains the ruts.  The funeral was today.  Probably folks from all around have come out to pay their respects to Big Mama.”

“For your sake, you better hope Big Mama is in a good mood, and bro, whatever you do, don’t drink or eat anything that crazy woman offers you.  You ain’t one of her friends.”

“I got it,” Stevie said, pulling up behind a pickup bearing Kentucky plates.  A man came up to the truck in front, looked inside, then waved the driver on.  When he stepped back to Stevie’s truck, he said, “Better git out.”  Two other men, aiming shotguns at Stevie and Dave, followed.

Stevie whispered to Dave.  “Stay calm.  Let me handle this.”

Dave nervously ran his hand through his buzz cut and was quiet.

Stevie slowly got out of the truck and put his hands up.  “Ain’t packin’.”  He recognized Darlene’s three brothers, every sorry last one of them.

The first brother, sporting a shaved head and large diamond stud in his ear, said, almost apologetically, “We gotta frisk ya.”

“Go for it,” Stevie said. 

When he finished patting Stevie down, the man said, “Ain’t you a bit late?  Funeral was this mornin’.”

“I come to talk to Big Mama.  Can you git word to her that I’m here?”

The man ignored the request.  “Who’s in the truck with ya?”

“Dave, my brother.  Don’t you recognize him, Mike?”

The man leaned in the truck and said to Dave, “Nothin’ funny is goin’ happen if you sit here and don’t move.”

“Got it,” Dave answered, and gave Stevie a side glance.  He mouthed the words.  “Watch your back.”

The two other brothers walked to Dave’s side of the truck and continued aiming their guns at him. Dave said, “Call off the posse! I’m just gonna sit here and wait for my brother.”  One of the men spit out a large wad of chewing tobacco and said to the other, “Why don’t we kill ‘em while we can?  One less Sanders in the world.”

The other one said, “Ain’t right.  He’s Salina’s uncle.” 

“I reckon so.”

Mike led Stevie down a bricked path to the front door of a multi-level log cabin.  When he opened the door, Stevie was amazed by the number of mourners sitting around, eating, talking, some were laughing.  A small band, sitting on wood stools, strummed guitars and banjoes — five all together.  They played “Rocky Top,” but changed the lyrics to, “Good ol’ Rocky Top, Rocky Top Kentucky,” the last word sung as “can-tuck-e.”

Mike spoke to a woman sitting by the performers.  “Where’s Big Mama?”

She pointed to the nearest door, which was closed.

Mike knocked and walked in, leaving Stevie behind.  He returned shortly and directed Stevie to come inside. 

Big Mama was sitting behind an oak desk, looking like she’d seen better days than this one, when she’d buried her only daughter.  Most of the time, Big Mama was a force to be reckoned with, but today she spoke to Stevie in a sad, strained voice.

“Sit down, Stevie.  Still good lookin’ as ever.  Ain’t hard to know what Darlene saw in ya.”

“Ma’am,” Stevie said, taking off his black knit hat.  “I’m sorry for your loss.  Darlene and I didn’t see eye-to-eye, and I can’t blame her for runnin’ out when I did a stint at the pen, but I always had great respect for you.”  He thought the words were flowing to fast from his lips, so he slowed down. He truly meant what he said about Darlene, but he was lying about having respect for Big Mama.  He hated her.  He didn’t like to lie, but it was something he had to do to butter up Salina’s grandmother. 

Big Mama was instrumental in the breakup of his marriage.  She never wanted Darlene to leave the holler, let alone marry a “foreigner.”  To Big Mama, any man from out-of-state was a damned Yankee.  To her, Stevie was worse than a damned Yankee; he was a
Hoosier
Yankee. She’d never met a person from Indiana she liked.

Big Mama said, “You look like you could use a drink.”  She reached into a drawer and pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam.  Then she lined up two glasses.  Stevie didn’t dare refuse, because if he did, that was considered an insult in this part of the woods.  He was wary, and wondered if the bottle was poisoned, but relaxed when she cut the neck with a sharp blade she had in her desk.  After she’d poured the whiskey and downed the drink, Stevie drank his.

“Ahhh,” he said.  “Good stuff.”

“Finest.”

“Ain’t as good as yours,” Stevie noted.

“I quit cookin’ mash years ago. Ain’t becomin’ of a lady.” She tipped her head back and laughed. 

Stevie began, “I came to take Salina home.”

“I know that,” the woman spat loudly.

Stevie was shocked by her sudden mood change, but not too shocked.  He’d seen her histrionics many times before.

“What do you have to offer Salina that I can’t?” she asked.

“I have my own business now.  I’ve bought a house in a nice neighborhood.  I have nice friends who could help Salina grow up into a fine lady.”

“I can offer Salina a place in my business.  I’ll start her out in our weed operation.”

Stevie’s eyes widened in disbelief.  He was about to counter when Salina walked into the room.  She was petite for her thirteen years, with long, blond hair, pulled back into a braid.  Her blue eyes were brimming with tears.  “Daddy,” she said, running over and throwing her arms around Stevie.  “I wanna go home.  Take me home.”

Big Mama seemed stunned.  “But Darlin’, don’t you want to stay here with Big Mama?  Go to school here?  Be a part of gramma’s business?”

Stevie patted Salina on the back of the head.  “Hush, baby cake.  I’ve driven all this way to take you home.  Go pack up your stuff.”

Salina let go and ran from the room.

Stevie faced Big Mama and began slowly.  “I respect your offer, but my daughter wants to come with me.”

“You hardly know the girl.  Hate to say it, Stevie, but you suck as a father.”

Stevie looked down at the table, then slowly looked back up.  “Can I have your word that we’ll be safely escorte
d
out-of-town?”

“Who’s stoppin’ ya?”

“Your sons at the end of the lane.  There doesn’t have to be any bloodshed over this.  Big Mama, your daughter is dead, but your granddaughter is still very much alive.”

Big Mama leaned back in her chair and said, sadly, “No one would harm a hair on that little love’s head.  But you, Stevie, I’ll have eyes on you.  If you mess this up, like you did with Darlene, I’ll come after you, and it won’t be to share a shot of whiskey, neither.”

Stevie nodded.  “Understood.”  He rose from his chair and walked through the door to find Salina.  Salina was busy putting something in her backpack.  It was struggling.  It meowed hoarsely.

She whispered, “Quit it.  You’ve got be quiet.  Big Mama hates cats, so do this for me.”  The cat seemed to understand and stopped wriggling inside the backpack.

“Does the critter have a name?”

Salina’s eyes lit up.  “I named him Wolfy, because he looks like a werewolf.”

Stevie wore a “let’s get a move on” expression on his face.  “Okay, is that your bag?” he asked hurriedly, looking at a handled plastic bag with the Erie Grocery store logo printed on it.

“Yes, and my backpack.”

“That’s it?” Stevie said, suddenly feeling sad that his daughter had so few belongings.

“Yep.  I’ll carry Wolfy.”

“Let’s get out of Dodge by goin’ to the Dodge.  I’m takin’ my favorite gal back to Erie.”

“I heard your old truck got blown up.”

“Salina, it wasn’t old, but brand new.  My new truck is a color you’ll appreciate.”

“Red?” she asked with a grin.

“Cherry red, baby cake.”

Chapter Eight

Nikolai Zhukov sat across from his American wife at the Rainbow Restaurant, drinking a vodka martini and checking text messages for the umpteenth time.  His slightly annoyed wife noticed something wasn’t quite right.

“Niki,” she said, concerned.  “What
is
wrong with you?  You’ve picked at the appetizer.  You’ve already downed two martinis.  This is unlike you.  Are you feeling okay?”

He shrugged off the question. “Please, one minute,” he said, holding up his index finger.  He tapped a number on his cell and tried to call the Australian exporter again.  This time his call went through.

He spoke only for a few seconds, then stood up so abruptly, his chair flew backward, hitting another dinner table, and crashing to the floor.  Fortunately, no one was sitting at that table.  “You did what?” he shouted into the phone. “You sent it to my receptionist?” his voice boomed even louder.  He talked for a few seconds more, then disconnected the call.  Taking his wife’s hand and kissing it, he said in his Russian accent, “Mary, you have dinner. Take a cab home.  I need to get to the bottom of something.”

“What?” Mary asked, alarmed.  “What’s going on?”

“Don’t ask,” he said throwing his hands up with great finality. 

“Oh, ‘don’t ask.’  I will ask.  Whatever it is, I’m going with you.”

Nikolai gave her a sharp look, then snapped his fingers for the nearest server.  Finding one, he said, “Put this on my tab.  My apologies, but we have a family emergency.”

The server said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Zhukov.  I hope everything will be okay.”

Nikolai didn’t answer.  He’d already left the restaurant, and jumped into his limo, which was waiting for him.  Mary ran behind him, climbing into the back seat without speaking. 

The chauffeur turned and asked, “Where to?”

“Take us back to the jewelry store.”

The security guard, Dimitri, met the Zhukovs at the front door.  Nikolai brushed past him. 

“
Preeveeyet
, Mary,” Dimitri said hello with a smile. 

Mary didn’t answer.

Nikolai threw off his heavy coat, “Dimitri, after I left, were there any more deliveries?”

“
Nyet
.”

“Did Madison say where she was going?”

“A party.”

“Where?”

The guard shook his head. “
Ya ne znayu
.” 

Still stung by her husband’s abruptness in the restaurant, Mary said in a clipped voice.  “If you need to know where Madison is, maybe she left information on her computer.  Let me see if I can find out something.”

“Ah, and that is why I love my wife,” Nikolai said proudly.

Mary sat down on the reception chair and began striking the keys.  Mary wasn’t your typical computer user.  She worked as a certified network engineer.  In a few seconds, she opened Madison’s email and began reading subject lines.

“See anything?” Nikolai asked nervously.

“She does a lot of online shopping.”

“
Da,
I know this. What else?”

“Did you know she was planning to fly somewhere?  Tonight?”

Nikolai’s face turned red.  Angrily, he asked, in broken English, “Where she go?”

Mary pulled up the flight schedule, then looked at her watch.  “She’s scheduled to land at the O’Hare Airport in Chicago in —”

Nikolai cut her off.  “I need to find her.”

Mary asked suspiciously, “I’m not stupid, Niki.  Has this woman done something to you?”

Nikolai raised his hand as if he were going to strike her, then put it back behind him.  “Check the airline.  See if the plane landed.”

Mary turned on her chair, and for the first time since she married Nikolai, she was afraid of him.  Hammering the keys again, she read the screen.  “Her flight was rerouted to Indianapolis.”

Nikolai leaned in and stroked his wife on the head.  “My darlink, you have done well, but I must take care of bizzness now.  You go home. I explain later.  No time.”

Mary got out of her seat.  Nikolai ushered her outside and into the limo.  “Take her straight home,” he instructed the driver, “then come back for me.”

“
Da,
” the driver said, speeding off.

Back inside the jewelry store, Nikolai started searching through Madison’s desk. 

Dimitri stood guard at the front door.

Nikolai picked up a spiral-bound tablet of phone messages and read through each one of them, from the day Madison started temping for him.  Then a slip of paper fell out of the book and landed upright on the desk.  He read the name and address: 
Katz, 512 Lincoln Street, Erie, Indiana
.  He took out his cell and searched Google maps.  Reading the result, he said to the security guard, “Ever been to Indiana?”

“Where?” Dimitri asked, still watching the street.

“
Interesno
,” Nikolai said in Russian.  Picking up his cell, he punched in the number of Vasily Chernoff, a very close friend of his and the current Russian mafia boss of Brooklyn.  “Vasily will fix this,” he said confidently.