Tried & True (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 5) (14 page)

“Waiting,” Tarq agreed. His gaze moved past me for a moment before his eyelids slid closed. His fingers curled around mine.

And I knew he wasn’t waiting for me anymore. He had only one thing left to wait for, and it was coming very, very soon.

There was a blurred dimness to everything. Loretta swapped places with me, and I slumped against Walt’s shoulder on the love seat. Des eschewed sitting altogether and leaned against walls and doorjambs, moving stealthily on the periphery, offering everything he could for our comfort. Nurses stole in and out on their quiet, rubber-soled shoes, checked equipment, and touched Tarq, feeling the slow fade of his vital signs.

I don’t know how much time passed. Hours, maybe. A day? It was no longer relevant. My senses narrowed down to registering only essentials—Walt’s steady warmth and deep breathing beside me and the click of Loretta’s knitting needles.

Then Walt shifted. “He’s gone,” he murmured.

I straightened and stared at him, confused, irrationally trying to put his words into a different context.

Quickly, but very gently, he pulled me onto his lap. He looked stricken, the pallor of his face stark against the dull background of the room. Walt had his arms locked around me as though he was worried I might, in reaction to the news, do myself harm. Indeed, along with the meaning of his words a surge of frantic energy flashed through me. But it was gone just as fast, and I went limp and buried jerky sobs in Walt’s shirt.

A nurse came in and spoke quietly with Loretta. Loretta clung to Tarq’s hand for a moment, then tenderly straightened his arm and stroked his fingers until they relaxed at his side. Together, she and the nurse leaned over the bed and neatly tucked the sheets around his body.

Tarq was no longer waiting.

CHAPTER 19

We carried on, did the things that had to be done. Certainly not with enthusiasm, and I think in many cases just to prove to ourselves that we, the living, did still have blood flowing through our veins. Because, sometimes, when sitting numbly by myself, I wondered about that. Those clichés about the death of a loved one leaving a hole in your heart, or a gap in your life, as though a part of you is missing—they’re clichés for a reason. The sensation is very, very real.

Loretta came home from the hospital with me, Walt following closely in his pickup. Our mini-caravan pulled up outside the bunkhouse, and we were greeted by a long line of intensely solemn boys along with Clarice and Emmie.

Walt stepped back into the day-to-day routine of school, meals, and chores with the boys. I wanted the same thing for Emmie, making sure she resumed her studies, giving her time to process and figure out what questions she needed to ask. I hoped it would provide some semblance of normalcy when she found out that adults really don’t have any more answers about these things than children do.

Des said he’d keep an eye on the cabin, secure Tarq’s leftover painkillers, pack Loretta’s few things and ferry them to her at Mayfield. She’d been living out of a suitcase for the duration of her stay with Tarq, so it wasn’t too daunting of a task for Des. It also spared her from having to face the empty cabin just yet.

Instead, Loretta shouldered most of the responsibility for planning Tarq’s memorial service. She insisted upon it. Clarice and I helped her some, but she seemed to have a very efficient network within the Alcoholics Anonymous group and the First Presbyterian Church where the group met.

We were inundated with food. Judging by the number of casserole dishes stacked on the kitchen counters, it seemed every woman and a few of the men in May County had prepared something. Etherea provided a food consolidation and shuttle service for those who weren’t able to drive all the way out to Mayfield to deliver their dishes themselves. She also helped Clarice label all the untagged pans and bowls and platters and pie safes so they could be returned to their rightful owners later. There seemed to be a strict protocol about this process.

We funneled the food on to Walt and the boys because there was no way we could consume it all. I caught Clarice more than once, when she had to rearrange the oversupply in the kitchen yet again, muttering about wishing the old room-size icebox in the basement, which was connected by dumbwaiter to the kitchen, still worked.

It wouldn’t be fair to say I’d forgotten about all the turmoil in San Francisco, but it took a call from Josh to bring it back to a place of prominence in my mind.

“How’re you holding up?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

Josh was quiet for a long minute. I appreciated that he didn’t offer platitudes. “I’ve heard rumors,” he finally said.

“The juicy kind?”

He chuckled. “Depends on which side you’re on. Zimmermann’s store was raided—very quietly, which is always a bit of a challenge for the FBI, but they pulled it off—the day after our visit to him. They missed him but got the records he’d left behind. Given what we know about the incinerator party, it couldn’t have been much. It seems Zimmermann had had a lucky premonition and took himself off to his vacation house in Carmel just before they arrived. However, on Monday morning, Zimmermann’s lawyer contacted the FBI and suggested that Zimmermann would be willing to turn himself in, with certain provisos. He’s now in federal custody.”

Josh had hardly taken a breath, the information rolling out in logical progression with a disciplined meter to his cadence. I headed up the stairs toward my attic think tank, under the suspicion that I may need to take notes before this conversation was finished.

Josh laughed softly at himself. “Those aren’t the rumors. Those are facts,” he said. “I forget that I don’t have to report to a supervisor anymore, don’t have to build case files. Old habits.”

“Die hard,” I replied. “For which I’m very grateful. If I remember correctly, your habits have saved my bacon a time or two. So has Zimmermann talked?”

“That’s the rumor. Everyone knows the old man is angling for the lightest sentence possible. Of course, I don’t know exactly what he’s saying, and he might wait to say anything until we see if Ochoa will take the bait. But I like the direction this seems to be heading.”

“Me too,” I huffed, breathless from my climb. Dust bunnies swirled around my feet as I walked down the third story’s central hallway.

“Better yet, one of Lutsenko’s lawyers has been to visit Zimmermann in jail,” Josh added.

“Confirmed?” I clicked on the lamp on my rickety desk and looked around the room at the sloped ceiling and three dormer windows. Familiar territory—nothing had changed up here.

“By a guy I know whose cousin is a custody officer at the jail. So that’s the rumor part. I can’t check the visitor logs myself, and there’s a chance the visit was off the books anyway, if it did occur.”

“Right. It would be better for all of us if he was able to convince the powers that be to keep it quiet. What’s your read on the attitude toward this mess at your old FBI office?”

“Surly. They’re mad that they missed Zimmermann in the raid and blame that on our interference. But Matt has your back. You’re his case, and they know to keep away from you because of Judge Trane’s warning.”

“But they could still screw it up.”

“About a million things could still screw this up.”

As usual, Josh was right.

oOo

Through the generosity of several close neighbors, we had enough vehicles and drivers to allow all the boys to attend Tarq’s memorial service at the First Presbyterian Church on Friday. Even though our procession lacked the number of seat belts that would have matched the number of passengers, every available seat belt was indeed fastened around somebody’s middle.

Bodie was driving my pickup, and he had four other boys jammed onto the seat beside him. Walt had a similar load in his pickup. Hank and Sidonie brought both of their vehicles and packed them full as well. Bob and Etherea Titus stuffed their Scout to the gills with boys. The convoy could easily have had a carnival vibe except for the somber nature of our excursion.

I rode with Clarice, holding Emmie on my lap while the three Clayborne boys occupied the backseat. Behind them, Eli and Mason sat crunched in the station wagon’s cargo area, their knees hinged under their chins.

So as we pulled into the church’s parking lot and I remembered that I needed to apply the common courtesy of turning off my phone’s ringer for the duration of the memorial service, Emmie and I had to make a combined grappling effort to reach it in my tote bag which was wedged at my feet.

Phones had been my oxygen supply for the past few months, and I was accustomed to being tethered to several. But I was only carrying one now, and this one was unusual.

This phone belonged to Matt. He hadn’t purchased it—it was my original phone, which I’d had before my marriage—but he owned it in the sense that it was completely tapped with all the tricky methods the FBI had up their collective sleeves. It had a GPS tracker, and all the calls to and from it were being recorded
and
listened to live by an agent in a dark room somewhere. That agent also had the ability to use the phone as a microphone and listen in on ambient conversations. All of these privacy-invading features worked even when the phone was turned off. So my phone and I were currently a big blip on about a dozen computer screens in the Seattle office—all with my permission. Because if Felix Ochoa did decide to contact me, we all wanted to hear it.

Matt still didn’t know the specifics about all of my varied attempts to motivate the physically untouchable Ochoa through the criminal network, so his official position on this scheme had been that it was a long shot. He’d stuck up for me most admirably in front of Judge Trane, though.

If Ochoa knew all that double-crosser, Blandings, knew…combined with the rumor seeds I’d planted through Lutsenko and Zimmermann, if those reprobates could be trusted to follow through…and if the hazing by Ebersole’s Mongrels chapter proved to be additionally motivating…along with the juicy nugget Robbie had delivered…

It was a gigantic muddle—a case of storming the castle walls of Casa Ochoa while slinging a ripe mixture of information and misinformation. The question was, what would he do about it?

So I was still waiting.

But I wouldn’t stand for any calls interrupting Tarq’s memorial service. He—we all—deserved an hour of peace and fond reminiscing.

CHAPTER 20

Under normal circumstances, I would have trotted straight across the parking lot and into the church because the ubiquitous Pacific Northwest drizzle was soaking into my clothing rather rapidly. And like all the true Washingtonians around me, I hadn’t brought an umbrella.

But there were so many people to greet in the parking lot, to hug and console, and slosh though puddles together. For many of the boys, it was their first time to attend such a formal, serious gathering. They also needed words of encouragement, an arm around their shoulders, and a little spit-and-finger-daub to get cowlicks under control, which they tolerated remarkably well.

The turnout was incredible. We were allotted the first two pews on both sides of the aisle—front and center—and shuffled in quietly. It also may have been the first time many of the county residents had seen all the boys at once, a chance for them to realize the size of the camp at Mayfield and what a neat bunch of boys we had. There was a lot of whispering and subtle gesturing as we streamed down the center aisle of the packed auditorium. It was sort of like a coming-out party, albeit a really somber one.

I recognized several members of my FBI surveillance detail scattered at the edges of the crowd. Once again, Special Agent Violet Burns was sufficiently incongruous as compared to the local population that she was glaringly obvious. She stood at the back of the auditorium in all her fake mourning glory—a trim black pantsuit and high-heeled black leather boots, black raincoat, black sunglasses (where was the sun?) perched on top of her tightly French-twisted blonde hair. I thought she should have gone for black lipstick too and completed the black widow ensemble.

Maybe my surveillance detail had become fond of my crusty old lawyer through their frequent, if rather contentious, interactions. I almost chuckled aloud at the preposterousness of the idea.

It was a lovely service. Even though I did cry softly through the whole thing. Emmie and I were sandwiched between Clarice and Walt, and they held us up. Clarice had come prepared with gobs of tissues in her purse, and she handed them out liberally. Walt just wrapped his arm around me and stroked my shoulder.

Des spoke. Bob and Etherea—actually Bob, who held Etherea snugged to his side while she sniffled valiantly through her tears and propped up their notepaper so he could read from it. Maeve Berends, who’d worked closely with Tarq at both the courthouse and within the tightly-knit support of the Alcoholic Anonymous group. Gus offered sweet insight and a beautiful farewell—who knew he was a poet? A couple fellow lawyers, a judge, old cronies, younger protégés. I lost track of how many people had a humorous anecdote or a story illustrating one of Tarq’s better qualities to share. He might have considered himself a recluse and a curmudgeon, but this day proved otherwise.

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t have even if I’d wanted to. Given the series of problems around which my relationship with Tarq had developed, Loretta and I had decided it was best for me to be a spectator only. But Loretta said a few words on behalf of all of us at Mayfield, and they were so poignant and made me weep even more. I meant everything she said with my whole heart. I had lost a true and selfless friend.

When the service was over, we filed out. My eyes ached. I was in such a daze that I stumbled into someone on the steps. Only Walt’s quick counterbalancing move prevented a chain-reaction tumble down the stairs.

I thought maybe I saw Matt in the parking lot. The back of a dark blue trench coat, tall, broad-shouldered, close-cropped dark blond hair. But just for a moment. For all I knew, he was still in Seattle, trying to convince his bosses that he hadn’t made a career-ending mistake by tussling with the San Francisco office over my case.

oOo

The idea had been that we would eat a large meal when we returned from the memorial service. That didn’t happen. No one was hungry.

I think everyone was completely wrung out. Walt and the boys went to hibernate in the bunkhouse and converted garage. Both Loretta and Clarice opted for naps. Emmie also retreated to her room with paper and crayons.

I stood in the doorway for a few minutes, watching her make a suitable nest on the bed. She gave me a faint smile and selected a brown crayon.

“You okay, kiddo?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Do you want to talk about Tarq?”

She shook her head.

The drawing was already taking shape, and I stepped closer to see it better. With a few more strokes, I recognized Tarq’s profile. It was uncanny.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

“I don’t want to forget,” she whispered back.

I bent over her and kissed the top of her head. And then I left her, because she probably didn’t want me crying on her artwork.

I slipped down the hall to my room and quickly changed into hiking clothes. I rummaged through the closet until I found a jacket with a hood. I knew I was emotionally drained, because my little bedroom smelled of Skip. A scent I associated with bay rum aftershave and shoe polish—although it probably wasn’t caused by only those things—with a new addition, a sort of woodsy humus scent. Which was just crazy. I’d given away all of Skip’s clothing, mostly to Bodie when he’d come to us and was detoxing.

But I did still have Skip’s robe, which hung on the back of the door. I stuck my nose in the fuzzy terrycloth, but it smelled more like me now that it did him. That wafting scent was a figment of my overwrought imagination. Tears welled up, unbidden, and I ground my teeth in frustration. I desperately needed fresh air.

Frankly, I was amazed I could still cry. I seemed to have a bottomless well of tears. But they dried quickly after I shrugged on the jacket and hit the cold drizzle outside.

I skirted around the old mansion and along the track toward the burned spot where the calving shed had been. Tiny signs of spring abounded, if you knew where to look. They were the most dramatic at the very tips of the evergreen branches where the new growth was a shocking shade of chartreuse. Ivy and blackberry vines were already starting to creep onto the charred remains of the shed. I kicked pinecones and veered onto a narrow trail, heading toward the ravine where Bodie had found Chet’s family hiding.

Mayfield was such a treasure trove of memories. Good and difficult. I wouldn’t call any of them bad, at least not yet. Some challenging and scary, sure. But that’s what constitutes a life—the whole of the parts, and how you finish at the end.

Philosophical ruminations. I missed Tarq. And I was feeling sorry for myself because I was missing him. Loretta’s previous admonition about the effectiveness of pity parties bounced, not unpleasantly, through my mind.

Water drops blopped on my hood, branches crackled, birds chirped here and there. Some small, unseen animal scuttled through the brush. Life went on. Footsteps.

I froze, breathing hard, listening, trying to peek around the edges of my hood without moving. But the muffled thudding was my own heartbeat echoing in my ears within the confines of the hood. Peaceful sounds. Of course they were. If a little rapid.

And that’s when I heard the engine.

Engines, plural. The noise of several motors roaring to life and rumbling down the hillside sent spasms through my body, unspun an involuntary terror in my gut.

There’s a split moment of frozenness that an adrenaline spike causes, then the hormone opens up the senses for a flood of hyper, but very narrowly focused, awareness. I’d experienced it often enough lately to recognize it for what it was. It’s actually a really helpful thing.

By the time I saw the first set of headlights dodging through the mist and the trees, I’d concluded that running wasn’t my best option. Mainly because my jacket was red. But in the rough terrain, even if I shed the jacket, I wouldn’t escape the guys on four wheels, and the effort of trying to would put me at an even more serious disadvantage.

Because these were dark green ATVs—three of them—ridden by men in camouflage and knit hats, gloves and boots. They’d come prepared, and they weren’t the FBI.

I knew who they were.

I hadn’t known how tenaciously Ochoa would cling to his spot at the top of the criminal food chain. If he would let anyone else get too close, in terms of income generation or influence. The answer was converging down the hill toward me.

I couldn’t let them see that I was disconcerted by the fact that they’d stolen a play from Numero Tres’s book—using ATVs to navigate Mayfield’s forested land. It was also a common-sense tactic, which wasn’t the proprietary domain of only Numero Tres.

So I forced myself to stand there calmly, facing them as they approached, watching them navigating down the slippery slope and between the trees. They were pretty skilled for desk jockeys.

My FBI surveillance detail was a skeleton force at best, especially given the amount of territory they were presumably supposed to cover. And with so many agents at the memorial service earlier, we’d given my visitors a good chance to set up their approach without being discovered.

So I was on my own, for the moment, with the protection of my well-connected phone. It would have to be sufficient until Violet and her team figured out we had intruders.

But I didn’t want to raise an alarm just yet. Granted, Ochoa’s people weren’t supposed to be here. They had no need to seek me out on my own turf. I’d expected to receive a quiet inquiry through his lawyers, quite possibly from Freddy Blandings who might try to leverage his position as de facto lawyer for both sides into an expeditious agreement.

As the ATVs rallied into a loose semicircle and the riders killed the engines, I supposed I should be delighted that Ochoa wanted to take immediate action. It meant all my efforts had been successful. Of course, he wouldn’t have instructed his people to knock on the kitchen door of the mansion. Because no matter how legitimate the business transaction was going to appear on paper, both parties knew it wasn’t.

Signing quickly and privately was really a good idea, perhaps even a courtesy on Ochoa’s part. Or so I told myself as I watched the men slide off the ATVs.

“Ms. Ingram-Sheldon,” said one of them, stepping close. He had a thin face and a neatly-trimmed dark beard that was graying near his sideburns and directly below his lower lip. He slowly pulled his leather driving gloves off, loosening one finger at a time.

They were the wrong kind of gloves—too thin and wimpy, not waterproof or insulated. They were not the sort of thing an experienced ATV rider would wear in the cold, rainy Pacific Northwest.

A prickle started behind my ears and zinged across my scalp. Something was wrong—more wrong than Ochoa’s lawyers riding ATVs on Mayfield property.

“I hope you brought an extra pen, since I don’t have one on me.” Could I possibly sound more inane? But it was the first thing that came to mind, and I had to present nonchalance. I needed to keep him talking until I figured out just what was going on.

The man chuckled as though I’d issued the punch line of a perfect joke. “Is that what you think? You are correct that I want your company, but I don’t need you to get it. Theo Gandy is drafting an excellent proposal from Turbo-Tidy’s franchisees. They want to buy out the parent company and are willing to make a very generous offer. Who better to run the business than those who already know how it operates, eh? All we have to do is wait until the judge gets tired of your antics.” He leaned in with a half-wink, his lips twitching in his beard. “Good thing I convinced those franchisees to join my organization as soon as we knew your darling hubby was on the run.”

He wrapped his fingers around my bicep. Even through the jacket, his grip was sharp and tight, and I winced. “And I can be very convincing,” he murmured in my ear. “No, this is about something else. This is about keeping a promise I made to your husband.”

“Nice to see you out and about, Felix,” said a voice behind me.