Cash & Carry (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 4) (10 page)

I found her file in the pile and pulled it toward me. “I never actually said she was his mistress. Technically, she’s the executive vice president of sales for Zimmermann’s front business.”

“So?” Matt massaged his forehead with the fingertips of both hands. “What’s to keep her from also selling her boss a bill of goods? There’s no law against a conman being swindled himself.”

I tapped the edge of the file on the table. “You’ve been reading too.”

Matt grinned at me. “But I want your unbiased impressions. So I’m not going to offer any more opinions.”

“Hallelujah,” Clarice muttered and thunked a mug down in front of him.

A phone rang, muffled and indistinct. I glanced at my tote bag which was slung from the back of one of the ladder-back chairs. I knew that Matt knew that I kept a selection of burner phones, but I sure didn’t want to answer one in front of him. His brows were already angled in that oh-really-what-now look of unsurprised disbelief.

Except that Clarice started patting at her thighs. “Huh,” she grunted, and pulled a phone from the bottom of the big pocket on the front of her ruffled red apron.

We shared a startled glance. Clarice’s phone hadn’t had reason to ring for months, except for when I called her. Well—and Gus had been calling, more recently.

“This better not be a telemarketer,” she growled and punched the answer button. “Yeah?”

And then she blanched. So completely that even her lipstick lost all color. She gripped the back of a chair and closed her eyes. “Say that again.”

Matt nudged my elbow and mouthed, “Emergency?”

I frowned and watched as Clarice slowly, steadily placed one foot in front of the other and walked out of the room as though she was on a tightrope, her back stiff. “I suppose it could be a death in the family,” I whispered, “although she doesn’t have much family left. But I think there’s a stepsister.”

“Can I help?” Matt asked.

I gave him a grim smile. “You know Clarice. Offers of help are considered meddling.”

“Well, then I’ll go.” Matt scraped his chair back. “Thank her for the coffee for me.”

I closed the door behind him and went in search of Clarice.

She was standing in the hallway between our bedroom doors, shaking, the phone white-knuckled in her hand, dangling at the end of a limp arm. I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and eased her into my room and onto the edge of the mattress.

I knelt in front of her. “Tell me.”

“Emmie,” Clarice croaked. “That was Walt. She’s been taken.”

CHAPTER 12

I squeezed my eyes shut against a swirling, panicking vortex.

“No!” The word came from somewhere, and I knew it was mine, but it sounded torn from someone else’s throat. “I need Matt,” I breathed, and I pushed up to chase after him.

Clarice clutched at me. “They said no police, or they’ll kill her. That’s why Walt called my phone. He saw Matt’s car out front.”

I was heaving great gasps and still felt as though I was drowning. “Where’s Walt?”

“Behind that stand of trees at the bend in the track, but he’ll come now.”

And then I heard him calling to us from below.

“This is my fault,” were his first words when I charged down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“How could it be your fault? Tell me.” Tears streamed down my cheeks. “Just tell me. What did they say?” I bit my lips hard. I didn’t want to be crying. I shouldn’t be crying. The thing I needed most right now was a clear head—reason, logic—and to not make a stupid mistake.

“They have her. They want half a million dollars. You have to deliver it in person. No law enforcement of any kind.” Walt released the demands in short bursts, as though his lungs were squeezed to the point of pain, and his blue eyes blazed from his pinched face.

“When and where?” I asked.

“They said they’d call back with that information.”

“And they called your phone?”

Walt nodded. “I’m not sure they have your number—any of your numbers. I left the kids alone for five minutes. Five minutes.” His head dropped, and he pressed a hand over his eyes.

I went to him then. Just dove in and clasped him around the middle. Hung on to him so we wouldn’t fall over. “I should have known. This is not your fault,” I gritted out between clenched teeth. “Matt warned me. But I assumed I would be the target. Never Emmie.”

“They must have used a vehicle that looked like a contractor’s,” Walt moaned. “I didn’t see anyone else near the bunkhouse or mechanics’ garage.”

“Easy to come by in these parts,” Clarice said. Her voice was stronger, and I could see her characteristic take-chargedness coming back into her posture and her eyes. “The odds are they’re locals.”

“What did Eli say—the other little boys—were they with Emmie when it happened?” I asked.

“White guy in work clothes. Maybe red hair, but he was wearing a cap. Odell said he was old, but coming from a six-year-old, I’m not sure exactly what that means. The man showed them a gun, but he didn’t point it at anyone.”

“And he went straight for Emmie?”

“Came through the back door a couple minutes after I left the schoolroom, according to Eli. She’s hard to miss—the only little girl—” Walt’s voice broke.

“You’re sure all the boys are safe?” Clarice snapped.

Walt cleared his throat and straightened, resting his hands on my shoulders. “I did a head count. They’re all there. I put them in lockdown in the bunkhouse with Bodie and Thomas in charge. They’re scared but they’re solid. And they won’t open the door for anyone but me or a short list of other people I’ve specified. I’d call Des to post a couple deputies, but—”

I finished for him. “No law enforcement. But Tarq and Loretta can come.” I found the right phone in my tote bag and placed the call.

“I need your sharpshooting skills,” I blurted when Loretta answered. “Yours and Tarq’s. Now. Here at Mayfield. Okay?”

I love my mother-in-law. She said, “Of course, darling,” without hesitation.

“But I need to talk to Tarq a minute before you leave.”

“Nora?” Tarq must have been right beside Loretta, because he came on the line immediately.

“You know that rucksack Dwayne placed in my care? Can I spend it?” And then I quickly told him about Emmie’s kidnapping and the ransom demand.

“Do it,” Tarq barked. “Best use I can think of for that money. Be careful. Mix it with the newer cash from the gold conversion. But also make sure some of it ends up in the pockets of anyone you deal with. You need backup.”

It was a lot to take in. Tarq’s mind was jumping around even faster than mine was.

“I haven’t heard their final demands yet. See you soon.” I hung up and nodded to Clarice. “We have work to do.”

“Whatever it is,” Walt said, “I’m in. Don’t shut me out. I have to help you with this.” His white face was hard to read, but his eyes were like blue granite.

“I assume we’re heading to the icebox?” Clarice muttered.

After I nodded, she shuffled sideways until she was directly in front of Walt and peered up at him. “There’s no going back. You won’t be able to claim you don’t know anything about all of Skip’s and Nora’s problems if you cross that line. Which means you would become a subject of interest to the FBI, among others.”

Clarice—my gatekeeper. As if I hadn’t already been strict about the separation between my husband’s criminal life and his charitable activities, both of which I’d inherited. And which had threatened to tumble over and contaminate each other constantly. Clarice was right—the line had been crossed. Probably had been crossed a long time ago—I just hadn’t wanted to see it.

Walt made an impatient noise deep in his throat.

Clarice grunted in the way that indicates she’s immensely pleased. “Welcome aboard.”

Relief washed over me. Incongruous and almost sacrilegious—the relief I felt at that moment. But I’d just gotten another in-the-know pillar to lean on. I’d never really been protecting Walt, for all my machinations and dissembling about separation. It was time to acknowledge that reality.

We trooped down the stairs to the basement and the small, metal-lined room that had previously functioned as the mansion’s cold storage. We left the door open and set our phones just outside so they would continue getting reception, then I unlaced Dwayne’s rucksack and dumped the packets of bills on a shelf.

Before he’d disappeared with our Laotian refugees on a mushroom hunting expedition, Dwayne had told me the exact amount, but I’d forgotten. Something just shy of $200,000.

Tarq had refused to tell me why a man who lived as a penniless hermit was carrying around a fortune in a rucksack, citing attorney-client confidentiality. But Dwayne’s reluctance to encounter the FBI agents on my property had prompted my suspicions.

Even though Dwayne had given me carte blanche with the funds, I’d still wanted approval from the only other person who knew where the money came from. And now Dwayne’s legacy would be going toward a ransom payment. Not for Skip. Not for myself. But for Emmie. 

I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment and prayed for my brave little girl and myself. That we would see this through and that the kidnappers wouldn’t do anything—I couldn’t bear to think what—anything to hurt her. I couldn’t think about how difficult her short life had already been, tossed from adult to adult, neglected, treated like unwanted baggage, never knowing her father. Now this. I couldn’t think about it. I couldn’t. I had to count.

We broke the packets apart and started an assembly line to intermix circa 1960s bills with the newer proceeds from the gold-for-cash transaction Tarq had orchestrated for me. Dwayne’s bills were all twenties, which was difficult because most of mine were fifties and hundreds. Cash in small denominations gets bulky in a hurry.

His bills were the old standard issue, printed with green and black ink, bound with rubber bands that had shrunk until they resembled worm casings. Mine were the new design with multiple colors in the background and offset portraits of Benjamin Franklin and Ulysses Grant.

It was going to be close. I’d spent a big chunk of the gold money on the garage renovations. It would take at least a week to convert another gold bar—time I didn’t have. I’d never felt so illegal before, standing in a row with Clarice and Walt, licking my fingertips to separate the bills, counting silently to myself in order not to disturb their counts. Hastily, with fumble fingers, my heart pounding. Knowing I couldn’t call Des or Matt or Violet.

The kidnappers knew I had cash. Half a million didn’t seem like a lot to ask for. I’d have gladly paid much, much more—everything I owned and could borrow—to get Emmie back. Why they asked for half a million I didn’t know. Maybe they were being reasonable in giving an amount they thought I could come up with in a short time.

When Tarq and Loretta arrived, I ran outside to give them Walt’s instructions for guarding the boys. There wasn’t much to say, no time frames or contingency plans. But the grim determination in their faces reassured me—they were the most fragile and yet strongest people I knew. Nobody would be messing with our boys under their watch.

When I clattered back down the stairs to the basement, a phone was ringing. Clarice met me at the doorway to the icebox and shoved the phone into my hand. “Yours.”

I didn’t recognize the number. “Yeah?” I answered, fear shooting my pulse into the stratosphere.

“Nora? It’s Laney,” she sniffled. “I got fired today.”

“Good riddance,” I snipped. I was in no mood to abide sniveling or whining or small talk. The girl never should have taken that job with those crooks.

“No, wait,” she whispered. “Something’s wrong.”

I wanted to say any number of rude things, but I bit my tongue, literally, at the last moment. Laney—who let a drug dealer crash in her apartment, who was unfazed by the signs of meth manufacture in her kitchen—thought something was wrong?

“They’ve been too nice to me this week, until this morning. They know. I didn’t tell them, but I think Chuck must have.”

“Know what?” I gritted out.

“That I talked to you. They didn’t have me make any fake invoices this week. Nothing shady. Just nice. Too nice. Chuck is Rod Kliever’s nephew.”

I should have known, should have anticipated this. I hadn’t forced Chuck to tell me his last name. Woodland was far too small for my curiosity to remain uncommented upon.

Then Odell’s description of an old—relatively speaking—white man with red hair clicked. Did Odell think the man was old because there had been gray salted in with the red? Had he been able to see that under the edge of the man’s cap?

“Was there any unusual activity around the warehouse this week?” I asked.

“Not any real work. More like spring cleaning. Mr. Bigelow had some of the guys haul junk out of the storerooms. Mr. Kliever put new locks on the doors. We got a janitorial supply shipment, which is an improvement, considering. Their restrooms are worse than the ones at gas stations. I guess somebody else will have to clean them now.” Laney’s tone lightened as she realized that being fired had its benefits.

“Where are the storerooms?” I asked.

“They’re behind the piles of scrap metal, in the southeast corner. Two of them. I had no idea what was in them, but when they cleaned them out it just looked like more old machinery and parts. Didn’t see why that stuff needed to be kept separate.”

“Stay at your mom’s house. Keep Mindy where you can see her at all times. I am not kidding, Laney.” My tone came out harsh, exactly the way I meant it.

“I’m sorry,” she answered meekly.

I hung up on her and turned to Walt and Clarice. “I know where Emmie is.”