Tried & True (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 5) (4 page)
Read Tried & True (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 5) Online
Authors: Jerusha Jones
I pulled her to me and cried into her hair for a little bit.
“I know, honey.” She patted my back. “I know.”
“How are you?” I still couldn’t speak above a whisper.
She leaned back and cupped my cheek with her hand. “Okay. Not great, but okay.” Her tone was fierce, determined, and I admired her from the depths of my soul. This tiny, frowsy, brave woman.
“It is hard—having all this here?” I asked, again indicating the pills.
She shook her head. “Alcohol’s always been my poison. Never tried anything else. I’m glad they give him relief, but they’re not tempting.”
“Be careful, though,” I murmured. “There are people who would kill for this kind of stash. And you’re out here a long way from help.”
“Except the sheriff lives next door. He’s been checking on us regularly. Besides, the last time somebody needed help around here, it was you.” She tweaked a little smirk at me. “Speaking of which, I saw a great blue heron this morning, stalking through the marsh. He didn’t seem to mind that his hunting ground is even bigger now because of all the mucky tire tracks.”
I was grateful for the chance to chuckle. “Just let me know if you want any more landscaping done.”
Emmie skipped into the kitchen, and Loretta and I flinched backward, dabbing our cheeks quickly, plastering smiles on our faces. But we didn’t fool Emmie. She gazed solemnly at me. “Uncle Tarq wants to see you now.”
I nodded and squeezed her shoulder on the way by. Loretta was already fishing cookies out of the jar she kept stocked on the counter.
It was almost like a dam broke, the way Tarq had declined so rapidly over the past week or two. It was clear the cancer was overwhelming him now, and there would be no more sustained rallies. Maybe no rallies at all.
He was shrunken, pressed into the fluffy mattress with the down comforter piled over his wasted body. His head looked very much like one of those dried apple dolls that were popular for a while until people began to realize they distastefully resembled something the more antisocial headhunting clans would produce as trophies. No one wants one of those in their china hutch.
But his brown eyes were still bright and glittery, like polished agates in the rawhide folds of his skin. I didn’t know if it was the drugs or if he was summoning energy from his last reservoir just to talk with me. I settled on a chair next to the bed.
“You were crying in the kitchen, huh? It’s okay, girlie,” he rasped. “You can cry in front of me.” He held out a shriveled hand, and I clung to it. “I never thought there’d be so many people sad about my departure. I want to soak up every minute I have left with all of you.”
My throat was too swollen; I couldn’t even swallow.
So Tarq kept talking. “I get out of bed every now and then. Eat some of Loretta’s good cooking. Have a look at the scenery. Did she tell you we saw a great blue heron this morning?”
I nodded silently and smiled for him. My words were lodged down in my heart.
“Got your gold money—two bars’ worth. It’s in the back of the Datsun.” Tarq shifted his free hand, pointing at the bedside table. “In the drawer is the contact info you need for future conversions. His name is Kurt Judd. He figures he can handle a bar every six months or so going forward. Only charges two percent for such large transactions, which is very reasonable.”
I knew the low rate was because Tarq had vigorously negotiated the terms. I pulled out the tidy slips of paper which were clipped together—receipts—and tucked them into my pocket.
Tarq was watching me with such intensity. Speaking, even for a few minutes, had worn him out, but his eagerness to catch up on my situation was readily apparent. So I interlaced my fingers with his and launched into a data dump.
I tried to anticipate all his questions so he wouldn’t have to exert himself by voicing them. Even so, a loose chuckle rattled his chest when I recounted Matt’s assurance that the FBI could submit a slurry of obfuscating paperwork into the court system to pave the way. Robbie’s offer of help also garnered a surprised grunt.
But Tarq didn’t react at all when I told him of Tank Ebersole’s parley offer. I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep. His eyelids were at half-mast.
But then he shifted, clearly in discomfort. I plumped pillows behind his head and shoulders.
“You’ve lined up your ducks, girlie. It’s all you can do,” Tarq wheezed.
“Any suggestions?” I asked.
But his eyes had drifted closed, the sparse lashes resting delicately on his sallow skin. “Good,” he whispered. “Good. Josh will take care of you. He’s got a savvy head on his shoulders.”
I watched Tarq’s chest rise and fall. Feeding him information like this was a gift—something for his mind to work on while he was still trapped in an uncooperative body. He’d keep whittling at the details, and if there was something I needed to know or do, he’d pass his instructions or insight on through Loretta.
I squeezed his hand. “I love you.” I hadn’t been able to say those incredibly important words to my dad the last time he’d had a few minutes of hazy mental awareness. I was determined to never let the opportunity pass again—with anyone.
Tarq was breathing heavily, but his eyelids fluttered once, and I hoped he’d heard me. I tucked the comforter close around him and crept from the room.
The sound was muffled but unmistakably out of place amid the occasional bird chirp and twig crackle in the surrounding meadow. I rummaged through my tote bag until I came up with the offending device.
“It’s on,” Josh said. “Tomorrow at three p.m. at a place called The Ponderosa in Emeryville. I’m flying down tonight to scout the location. Let me know your arrival time and I’ll pick you up. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.” And he was gone.
I hadn’t had time to breathe, let alone take notes. Tomorrow? Tank Ebersole’s urgency swept over me with a shudder. Either he was scared spitless or he was rushing me so I’d make a mistake. And a mistake with an outlaw biker would be deadly.
I leaned against Lentil’s open door. Josh was going in first. The best thing I could do was support him all the way.
“You okay?” Loretta’s worried face popped into focus.
I nodded. “I have to go to San Francisco. When Tarq wakes up, will you tell him?”
“Darling.” Loretta moved closer and lowered her voice. “Back there? It’s—”
“I know,” I interrupted. “Our old stomping grounds. But it’s where most of the—most of Skip’s associates—” I bit my lip. She knew, but I hated actually naming her son’s criminal activities out loud in front of her. Instead I gave her a quick hug. “It shouldn’t take too long. A few days maybe. If anything—” I gestured toward the cabin. “Call me. Please. Okay?”
Loretta nodded sharply and gave me a little shove toward the driver’s seat. “Go—go. We’ll be fine. Take care of yourself.”
I waited until Emmie was buckled in beside me, then gunned Lentil over the rutted track out to the road. The tires whirred on the pavement, echoing my spinning thoughts.
oOo
She issued a string of commands as she tossed the necessary items into her capacious purse and trotted out the door to her Subaru station wagon for a quick trip to Woodland before the stores closed. I was left holding down the fort and a batch of cornbread that was baking in the oven.
I sent Emmie to change into comfortable clothing for her jiu-jitsu lesson. Walt had arranged for a tutor to hold group sessions so the boys could learn self-defense and have a healthy locus for their exuberant energy. I’d participated and enjoyed the first lesson too, but I’d have to skip for the next few days at least.
I wanted Emmie to have the regularity and predictability of a standard school and extracurricular schedule, no matter how much upheaval there might be in my life.
As soon as the crusty little fish-shaped loaves were cooling on the counter, I drove Emmie to the newly converted garage where over half of the foster boys now bunked. The big living room on the ground floor doubled as the martial arts classroom when the sofas were pushed against the walls.
I tugged Walt to the side and told him about my spontaneous travel plans in a whisper. He bent to bring his ear near my mouth, his arm warm around my back. When I finished, his head popped up, his intense blue eyes probing.
We were past arguing about my forays into the underbelly of criminal connections. I was beginning to think I’d convinced him that the only way out of my mess was through it. And that, for the most part, it was a hands-on endeavor. Sitting on the sidelines not only didn’t guarantee safety, it wasn’t productive either.
His arm tightened around me, and his other hand came up to cup my cheek, replicating Loretta’s caress from earlier. “Just come home, Nora. Promise me you’ll come home.”
I smiled and leaned into his callused palm. I loved that Mayfield was home—both for him and for me. I loved that he was sharing it with me, since he’d been here first.
Then Des’s hint that he suspected Walt somehow had a claim on me shot through the back of my brain, and I stiffened. An embrace like this would lend direct credence to that kind of rumor.
I pulled away. “Not in my purview, but I’ll do my very best,” I murmured.
Walt frowned, noticed my awkwardness. “What can I do?”
“What you always do—take care of the boys and Emmie. And watch out for Clarice?” She’d never agree with me that she might need protection, but she didn’t need to know about my secret request.
Walt just nodded, wearily, as though this routine were getting old. He had to be frustrated. It wasn’t the first time I’d asked for favors and left him with more burden than he usually carried—which was considerable to start with. But he never, ever complained.
“Just come home.” He brushed his fingers down my arm and walked away.
I drove back to the mansion with a heavy feeling. Rats. Double rats. The last thing I wanted was distance between Walt and me. He was my rock. And I couldn’t let a whisper of indiscretion get in the way.
Except it already had.
But there was no time to worry over the nuances of human relationships. Because Clarice had returned with a new selection of burner cell phones and a to-do list a mile long.
We set up stations across from each other at the kitchen table and worked at a frantic pace until Emmie’s lesson was over and Clarice slipped away to pick her up.
Dinner was eaten on the fly. I passed on the chili due to the fact that I’d be imprisoned on an airplane for a couple hours the next day and instead melted a mass of cheese over my cornbread. Clarice noticed with a squint over the tops of her cat’s-eye glasses but refrained from comment. Could have been because she had both a pen and a pencil pinched between her lips while her fingers were clacketing on the laptop’s keyboard. I doused the whole thing with a generous serving of salsa redolent of cilantro. Soul food.
But Clarice’s remarkable talents are utterly unchallenged by housekeeping. Where she truly shines is in getting me organized. Within a couple hours, she had a complete itinerary for me—potential meetings with exact addresses or a selection of nearby spots that would be appropriate for meeting locations plus phone numbers and a collection of background information on each of the men I hoped to talk with. Except for my dad, of course, since I already knew his contact details.
When Emmie found out I’d be visiting my father, she fetched her craft paper and colored pencils and concentrated on producing a get-well card for him. She knew my dad had a disease, but her only experience with diseases so far was Tarq’s cancer. There was a hollow place in my stomach, knowing that neither man had a disease they would recover from, but I didn’t have the heart to correct her expectations.
Clarice printed out detailed maps with routes and her suggestions for the most efficient sequencing of meetings. “I know Josh’ll have GPS, but these are backups. I’ll keep two of these—” she waved to the pile of new phones on the table, “and start calling as soon as your plane’s in the air to set up the appointments. When you land, I’ll call you and let you know if there are any changes to the plan.”
“Which flight am I taking?”
“There’s an Alaska Airlines flight at 9:42 a.m. out of PDX to San Jose. It’s a connecting flight going on to Los Angeles. I’ll book the whole flight all the way through to Los Angeles for you”—she checked her watch—“just before midnight. Any closer to the flight departure time, and I’m worried that it would flag you for additional security checks. We can’t risk that.” She scratched her chin while staring at the screen—which was reflected in the lenses of her glasses—and then chortled. “There’s another flight two hours later from Los Angeles to Baja. Do you want to be on it?”
I grinned back at her. “Might as well. I could use some sun.”
“I’ll reserve a rental car in your name at the Loreto airport. Insurance for driving in Mexico is a pain in the patootie, but setting that up will leave a hard-to-miss swath of intentions all the way down to a very nice vacation spot.” She winked at me over the top of her monitor. “You’ll have to leave here at the crack of dawn to make it to Portland in time. I found a privately-owned long-term parking lot off 82nd Avenue that has a shuttle so you don’t have to leave Lentil in an airport lot. Trying to introduce as many kinks as possible.” She seemed to be thoroughly enjoying this return to the realm of dates and times, precision and efficiency, and bossing people around.
I nodded. I’d known it would be early. And my name popping up on a flight manifest was going to send shivers through my FBI surveillance detail. The trick was postponing their knowledge of my flight for as long as possible, hence the delayed booking and the private parking lot. I had to cram as much as I possibly could into the short time I had before the FBI caught up with me.
Good thing it was a relatively short flight from Portland to San Jose. While San Jose was in the Bay Area, it wasn’t like I’d be flying directly into San Francisco. Any possible diversionary measure we could employ, we would. Having my name show up on flight manifests for a trip all the way down to Mexico was genius on Clarice’s part.
I left a message for Josh with my flight number and San Jose arrival time. He called back two minutes later with a laundry list of details for how to conduct myself during the flight and shortly after. Covert operations. I took notes.
Once again, as I tucked Emmie into bed, I was reminded of how odd her situation was. I hoped she wouldn’t be scarred for life by overhearing dinner conversations about FBI response times and informant meetings or by participating in ferrying large amounts of cash as we’d done earlier in the day.
I smoothed her hair back and planted a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll make sure your card gets delivered, sweetheart,” I murmured.
“And a hug too,” she slurred sleepily. “Is he my grandpa? Does he know about me?”
I flicked off the light. “Yes, and soon,” I whispered.
Clarice met me in the hall. “You’ll want to take this one,” she said in a harsh whisper and thrust a phone at me. The screen was lit up—a call on hold. “Matt,” she hissed. “Play it cool.”
Right. In other words, don’t give away an entire evening’s worth of planning. I grimaced and lifted the phone to my ear as I scooted down the hall to my bedroom so Emmie wouldn’t have to add yet another overheard muffled phone discussion with an FBI case manager to her list of unusual experiences.
Except Matt was more than a little miffed. “You don’t need to talk to Robbie Van Buren about Turbo-Tidy’s books. The San Francisco office has that covered. Everything’s in the judge’s hands,” he said by way of greeting. “We’re moving forward with the delay tactics on the bankruptcy.”
I lost any retort I was going to offer. The only reason Matt would know that I’d called Robbie was if either my phone or Robbie’s was tapped. I’d used one of my burner phones for that call. But it was entirely possible that somehow the FBI had linked that number to me in the past couple weeks since I’d last changed out phones. It was even more likely that Robbie’s number was a known quantity for them.
Regardless, Clarice hadn’t replenished our stash of phones any too soon. I’d take all the old ones with me to the airport tomorrow, remove the batteries, and dispose of them when I had the opportunity.
I decided to do a little fishing. Matt’s comment about the company’s books was perhaps a clue that he knew less than I was assuming.
“Are you sure you don’t need Robbie’s help? He’s a nice young man, and I think he’d be willing to cooperate,” I said.
“No need,” Matt growled. “All the assets are accounted for. The paper trail is clear.”
Gotcha—maybe. I allowed myself to draw a deep breath. Robbie had generated that paper trail—two of them, actually, the real one and the one Skip submitted to the IRS when he paid taxes, both of which were now in the FBI’s hands. And those accounts had had nothing to do with what Robbie and I had discussed on the phone yesterday.
“Is there anyone else I’m not allowed to talk to?” I asked sweetly. “Because I was unaware of any restrictions on my exercise of free speech. Robbie’s just a kid, and I feel he’s been taken advantage of by some of the less scrupulous members of your San Francisco office.” I snorted into the phone. “What they’re threatening him with—well, extortion goes both ways.”
It was a vague insinuation. And a test.
Matt was silent for a long minute. “He’s old enough to know better, but I’ll check it out,” he finally said, sounding as though he was grinding his teeth together. He hung up.
I sank onto my bed and pressed the phone against my stomach, trying to still the flutters that were still bashing around nervously in there alongside the cornbread. Then I quickly checked the phone—yep, my original one, the one I’d had from before my marriage, the one Matt always called me on. The one I’d kept in the fruitless hope that at some point there’d be a ransom phone call regarding Skip.
Good—it was the right phone.
