Cash & Carry (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 4) (17 page)
Read Cash & Carry (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 4) Online
Authors: Jerusha Jones
Great. So Angelica knew all my names, including my married surname.
The name I shared with Loretta, who was running low across the meadow with the rifle held diagonally across her chest.
Angelica slipped off the running board—not entirely intentionally, I thought. Her head disappeared behind the Chrysler’s door for a moment, then she sprang back up and started wading toward me.
Her upper body was stomping, but her lower half wasn’t fully cooperating. It’s difficult to maintain an irritated, arrogant gait when you’re knee-deep in mud. She swung her arms, mimicking ineffectual underwater aerobics movements.
Loretta had drawn up beside me, breathing heavily, but she still held the rifle poised in a safe ready position.
Angelica didn’t seem to have a weapon, so I decided to extend some courtesy while she struggled to gain purchase. “You try anything funny,” I shouted, “and Loretta here will put a hole in you. I should probably introduce the two of you while we’re at it,” I added. “This is Skip’s mother.”
Yet another Sheldon, and this one armed. The information had the desired effect.
Angelica’s face went white under the mud streaks, and she stumbled to her knees, wrists plunging into the thick slurry.
It took me a full minute to realize she was crying now. And whimpering. Muffled words which sounded strangely like, “Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me.”
“Oh for Pete’s sake,” I muttered. “Don’t be such a girl.” I started forward, but was stopped by a firm hand on my shoulder.
“Allow me,” Tarq wheezed. “I’m dressed for the occasion.”
I hadn’t even noticed that he’d joined our little border guard group. Apparently a well-dressed woman thrashing in a mud pit is quite a captivating sight. It was certainly my first time witnessing such a scene. He handed his shotgun to me and lumbered into the marsh, his baggy jeans tucked into his rubber boots.
Tarq hoisted Angelica up with an arm around her waist and dragged her onto firm ground, demonstrating unexpected strength given his cancer-wasted condition. It seemed a shot of adrenaline was coursing through his system too.
“Come on,” Loretta said politely, turning on her heel, “we’ll hose you off.” As though it was a service she was accustomed to offering to all her guests.
We trudged to the cabin. Angelica’s ponytail dribbled down her back, and she clung to Tarq as though she was a wobbly toddler in need of assurance about putting one foot in front of the other.
Loretta had been serious about the hosing. And the water came from the spigot on the back of the cabin—in other words, an ice cold gusher. Angelica’s vocal cords seemed so constricted that she couldn’t scream, although she tried. She was blue now, her teeth chattering audibly.
Then Loretta threw a scratchy old wool blanket around Angelica’s shoulders and helped her up the steps into the kitchen.
It took three cups of coffee and a big bowl of homemade minestrone soup before Angelica became coherent.
“So now,” Tarq started in a misleadingly gentle fashion, “that was rather dramatic out there. What’s gotten into you, girl?”
I leaned back in my chair and watched Angelica closely. It was refreshing to have Tarq’s well-honed, double-edged attorney’s focus directed at someone else for a change.
“I recognized her,” Angelica whispered, gesturing at me with her spoon. “The little scar on her lip, the way she carries herself. I remembered her—Nora—with Skip. And then I knew it was a setup. Please don’t kill me,” she sniveled.
As though my mother-in-law would feed the obnoxious people we planned on whacking. I’d lost all patience with Angelica’s manipulative groveling. “We’re not in the habit of murdering people,” I announced. “But I would be ecstatic to see you in jail.”
“Yes, you do,” Angelica retorted. “Or you hire others to do it.”
Tarq’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“First Skip disappears. Everybody’s desperate to get into contact with him. I mean, after all, the money’s gone, right? Everything my—” Angelica hesitated, resurrecting some of her original gumption while selecting the right relationship word, “my boss, Martin Zimmermann, had entrusted to Skip’s care for investment purposes.”
“Money laundering,” I interrupted. “Let’s call it what it is.”
Angelica eyed me and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “Then we—I mean Martin—opens up communication with the other bosses—something we—I mean he—rarely does because it’s just not good for business, usually. But they have to talk to each other, to develop a strategy, because we’re all out huge sums of money. And then we hear that Solano’s found you.” Angelica pointed a delicate finger in my direction again. “And then he disappears too. Everyone knows Skip is out there somewhere, and that he put a hit on Solano to protect you. So the consensus is that all the mob bosses want to find you because you’re the key to the money, but they’re afraid to really come after you because Skip’s like this lurking bomb waiting to knock them off. We don’t know where he is or what he’s doing, but he seems to be able to track our movements.”
Solano—Giuseppe Ricardo Solano—the dead body in my cemetery. Had Skip been my lethal defender?
My face was frozen in a stoic mask. At least, I hoped it was. But inside my fear sensors were buzzing like wasps slamming themselves against a window screen, stingers aimed.
“I just thought—” Angelica sucked in a deep breath. “I just thought, once I realized who you were, that I had to talk to you, face to face, had to set things straight. I don’t—” She frowned and shook her head. “I’ve been wanting to get out of the life for a while.”
I didn’t believe her fabricated penitence for one second. She was only worried about one thing—her own pretty little hide.
Tarq didn’t buy her confession either—I could tell. But he pointed out the most logical conclusion in his rumbly voice. “Then you won’t mind talking to the FBI.”
I took his cue and fished the battery pack out of my waistband. I quietly set it on the table, then reached up under my shirt and awkwardly plucked at the tape, wriggling and stretching until I’d yanked most of the wire free. I stuck a hand into my neckline and unclipped the microphone. It was quite an acrobatic feat, but in a few minutes, the whole contraption was laid bare for Angelica to see.
She’d gone absolutely white again.
I had to assume that the equipment and I were still well out of the receiving team’s range, so Angelica’s recent admissions hadn’t been recorded, but she didn’t need to know that. There were three witnesses sitting around the table.
Tarq laid a hand over mine. “All of it, you know,” he said quietly. And then he scanned Loretta’s face because the
all of it
he’d referred to affected her too. We both nodded back, reluctantly, but there was no evading this new bit of information. We could not possibly protect Skip from the accusations Angelica had just made.
I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Skip was not a cold-blooded killer. Sure, he was a planner, a detailed strategizer, a prepared-for-all-circumstances sort of guy.
But murder? Even if it was hired out to a willing subcontractor? That I couldn’t believe. Even though everything else I’d learned about him since our marriage had obliterated my innocence.
From Loretta’s tightly knotted hands balled up on the table, I knew she was despairing over this image of her son too. I scooted over next to her and laid my head on her shoulder.
Tarq removed the cell phone I’d given him from a pocket and deftly dialed a number with his thumb.
“This is Tarquin Roe,” he said in a calm, stately manner. “I represent Ms. Ingram-Sheldon.” After which he had to wait several long minutes while the person on the other end of the line spoke forcefully, with a great deal of emphasis, his tone and demeanor audible to all of us. I couldn’t decipher the exact words from across the table, but their intensity and rapidity told me plenty.
“There’s no need to be testy, young man,” Tarq finally replied, pitching his eyebrows at me for effect. “You’ve been to my house before. This would be a good time to pay us another visit.”
Loretta got up to start another pot of coffee while Angelica stared dejectedly at the little puddle of soup left in her bowl.
Tarq leaned over to me with a tight grin on his face. “He’s rather upset that you haven’t answered the phone for the past half hour. Frantic might be the correct term.” Then Tarq winked. “You keep it up, girlie. Unpredictable is the name of the game.”
It also meant that Matt hadn’t put a GPS tracking device on Lentil yet. Maybe he’d been honoring my wishes, but if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say that I’d been keeping him too busy to devote proper attention to the more mundane housekeeping measures. Good to know.
oOo
But with the three of us—Tarq, Loretta, and me—ready to vouch for her desire to get out of her particular branch of organized crime, she had to know she could never return to Martin Zimmermann. Certainly not in the same privileged capacity. She would now be officially categorized as a snitch. I had no doubt she’d thoroughly blab when she judged the time was right in order to obtain the most advantageous plea agreement possible.
The FBI arrived—quite a few of them, actually. I recognized some of them from the evidence collection team and the protection detail at Mayfield. A couple of them escorted Angelica to the safety of a jail cell. Des was going to need a special rider for the sheriff’s department budget to cover all these extra guests in his fine incarceration facility. I hoped the feds were reimbursing him.
Several agents searched Angelica’s car while it was still embedded in the marsh, then arranged for a tow truck.
The bracelet was missing. It had not been on Angelica’s sculpted arm when she was patted down and handcuffed. Which meant the mud pit had to be dredged for that important, and rather small, piece of evidence.
Matt was doing a lot of grumbling. Violet even more so. Even though I was able to return the microphone and transmitter in pristine condition.
Then Tarq sent me home. He and Loretta would have to deal with cranky agents in their front yard for a while longer, but my presence wasn’t needed.
And I needed the consolation of close friends. Because I really didn’t want to think about what my husband might actually be capable of, what he might have already done, what Angelica had claimed was common knowledge in her underworld circles.
The kitchen was a scene of domestic tranquility, and I plunked down in the middle of it without even saying hello.
They were all engrossed in tasks. Gus and Emmie were carefully staying between the lines in a Cinderella coloring book. I was too tired to muster a snide comment about the voluminous blue ball gown Gus was detailing. But I did grin as he flicked his beard out of the way to highlight the glass slippers on those impossibly tiny feet. Gus was certainly man enough to handle whatever Emmie might ask of him.
Clarice was scowling at the laptop screen, making notes on a scrap of paper. “Etherea called,” she muttered. “Saw you breaking the speed limit, flashing by the general store with an unfamiliar car in pursuit. I reminded her I’m not your babysitter.”
“And when you call her back, you can tell her it all ended well. No one was hurt,” I replied. “Although Tarq will need wildlife habitat repair in his meadow.” I laid a hand on Gus’s arm. “I’m sorry.”
“So long as nobody was injured.” He chose a pink crayon for Cinderella’s sash. “Birds have more sense than people most of the time. They’ll be fine. Does your truck need body work?” He tilted one bushy eyebrow at me.
I chuckled now that I had his full attention. They didn’t fool me. They weren’t dying for the juicy details of my encounter with Angelica because they already had them—somehow. I’d be willing to bet Etherea Titus was pretty nearly omniscient about county matters. She had her own informant network. “Nary a scratch,” I said.
Clarice slammed the laptop closed. “Guess who stopped by and brought those?” She jabbed a finger at a large paper sack propped on the counter next to a lovely bouquet of mixed flowers—yellow freesia, carnations, daisies, and big pink roses.
Emmie giggled, just a tiny bit, still concentrating on the mice seamstresses and sweet songbirds who were bedecking Cinderella with ribbons, and I knew I had to peek.
In the bag, brown, spongy-looking blobs. They smelled slightly sweet and loamy at the same time, but I sure didn’t want to touch them. The card stuck in with the flowers said,
To the spunkiest woman I know. Affectionately, Gus.
I spun back to Clarice with questions on my face.
But she only answered one of them. “Morels,” she grunted. “We’re having mushroom-stuffed ravioli tonight.”
“Dwayne.” I grinned again. “How is he?”
“Not in a chatty frame of mind,” Gus said. “Felt he needed to skedaddle. He’d noticed your FBI guard had been called away but knew it wouldn’t last long.”
I had the weird, fleeting feeling that my entire morning had been captured in a running play-by-play commentary by my near neighbors and friends. Like a host of guardian angels floating around with their antennae quivering on high alert.
“And then there’s this.” Gus prodded a small packet across the kitchen table with his finger. “Figured it warranted an urgent delivery. Busy day, huh, punkin?”
One glance at the handwriting on the packet and I lost the use of my knees. I sank onto a chair and found Clarice, Emmie, and Gus all watching me somberly.
“It might be good news,” Clarice finally broke the silence.
Clearly, they’d also discussed this new dispatch from Skip before I’d arrived. The return address this time was Twin Falls, Idaho. Moving closer.
So Loretta’s hypothesis was still holding water. Skip really was homing in on me like a pigeon—or a ballistic missile.
I took a deep breath and tore open the packet. A gold ring dropped on the table with an eighteen-carat thunk. I knew whose it was, but I read the inscription anyway.
All my love, Nora
.
What does it mean when a man returns his wedding ring? Maybe it was only fair since I’d traded the wedding ring he’d given me for Emmie. It had probably been sold three times over by now, for decreasing amounts of money each time. But I didn’t care about that because I had my treasure, and she was studying me with worried golden-brown eyes, her hands carefully folded over the coloring book page.
Or was this proof that Skip was dead? Isn’t that what they did in the movies? Use some kind of personal item to prove the owner was no longer around to possess it himself? That was how I’d identified Giuseppe Ricardo Solano in my cemetery—by his flashy pinkie ring. The FBI would do the necessary DNA analysis, but we all already knew the outcome of those tests. The pinkie ring had been the clincher.
Or was Skip alive, since he’d addressed the envelope? But maybe someone had forced him to write out my address before killing him.
“Do you know what today is, punkin?” Gus asked softly.
I slipped the ring on my thumb, encircling it with the thumb and forefinger of my other hand. The gold immediately warmed with my body heat.
“Valentine’s Day,” he continued. “Think it means anything?”
Was it Valentine’s Day? I hadn’t had space for a romantic notion in my head for a long time. Dates on calendars were rather insignificant at this point in my life. What did it mean when a man returned his wedding ring on Valentine’s Day?
I was going to lose it.
Because I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything.
They let me go without protest. I saw Clarice give Gus a sharp shake of her head before I fled outside.
oOo
But it was far too cold for a cathartic, heart-wrenching bawling session. I inhaled searing gulps of lung-shriveling air, and my tears dribbled to a stop. What use was it anyway?
I tried to convince myself that there were all kinds of less sinister reasons for Skip to mail his ring to me. Safekeeping was the primary one. And as far as the ring’s arrival on Valentine’s Day, well, that could have been a fluke of the mail delivery system. Or maybe Skip had been as unaware of the impending holiday as I had been. How could I anticipate the motives of someone I hadn’t talked with in over two months?
Desperate for a sliver of normalcy, I headed toward the bunkhouse. Maybe I could have a parent-teacher conference with Walt. What I wouldn’t give to perch on a tiny chair in a first grade classroom and have a serious discussion with a knowledgeable adult about my little girl’s success with addition and subtraction. Or her tendency to giggle with her friends at inappropriate moments. Or her preference for reading over recess.
Except Walt was inundated with books and files and a cobbled-together assortment of office furniture. He’d lined one of the old bedrooms with shelves and was in the process of moving into his new office. Clearly, he needed organizational assistance. Short of siccing Clarice on him, I was his next best option.
“Alphabetical or topical?” I asked.
From a step stool in the corner, Walt glanced over his shoulder, and a broad smile lit up his eyes. “Topical.”
“Stay there.” I sidled around tottering stacks of books. “I’ll hand them up to you.”
We worked in comfortable silence, filling shelf after shelf with books and then files set on edge. I saw boys’ names I didn’t know—graduates of the camp, young men who’d moved on into adult life much better equipped and knowing they were loved.
I started getting mushy all over again at the idea of Walt’s investment in these formerly abandoned boys. Here was a life with purpose.
With the next batch of handed-off files, Walt’s fingers brushed Skip’s ring on my thumb. He hesitated and turned back. “What’s this?” He gripped my hand and rotated my wrist so that the gold gleamed dully.
“Skip’s,” I whispered. “I mean mine. The one I gave to Skip. He returned it.”
Rats. Rats. Rats. The tears were back. They’d never really gone, I guessed. Just taken a simmering intermission to give me the illusion that I could control my emotions.
“What does it mean?” I blubbered. The question that had no answer.
Walt stared at me with probing intensity. The icy-blue gaze that’s so disconcerting and which I inexplicably crave at the same time.
He slowly shook his head. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past few weeks, it’s that I can’t speak for Skip. I barely knew him before, but now—” He gathered me in his arms and pressed my head against his shoulder. Then he bent down and murmured in my ear. “But there’s one other thing that is absolutely certain, for what it’s worth. You’ll always have me.”
I let him hold me. I can’t even begin to describe how good it felt.
I don’t know how much time passed, but it was long enough for the tension to drain away, solace increasing with every beat of Walt’s heart through his flannel shirt.
Exaggerated throat clearing sounded from the doorway. I quickly stepped back. But Walt didn’t fully release me, and we stood there awkwardly in a sort of loose embrace.
“A little guy named Eli said you’d be back here.” Matt jerked his thumb over his shoulder as his gaze traveled from me to Walt and back again. Not accusing, just interested. In fact, there might have been a hint of a smile on his face. “You seem to be having difficulty answering your phone today.”
I blew out a big breath. “I’m sorry. I forgot them—it—at the mansion.”
“I know all about your many phones, Nora.” Matt might actually have chuckled a little at that understatement. “And it’s understandable if their ball-and-chain status is losing its appeal, but it would be really helpful if you’d at least take
my
calls. Especially since sometimes I have good news.”
Walt removed a stack of papers from a chair and offered the seat to Matt. Then he cleared another chair for me and found a perch on the edge of the desk for himself.
“So this is the new office, huh?” Matt leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “I’m amazed at what you do here, Walt. Wish there were more like you, giving these kids a good home.”
Walt and I shared a questioning frown.
“Did you really come here to talk about social services?” I asked.
“Nope. It’s just that, in my job, I rarely get to see the good side of things. Just wanted to call it out while I had the chance.” Matt smacked his knee and sat up straighter. “So here’s the scoop on the sleazeballs. That suitcase of cash you so thoughtfully handed over to Shane Bigelow? Well, it did indeed get delivered to his boss, Dirk Whelan. And Whelan used it to make payroll yesterday.”
I snorted. “You’re kidding.”
Matt couldn’t suppress his grin any longer. “He handed out your cash to his entire goon squad. Must have thought it was easier than going to the bank. And now retail establishments—mostly convenience stores—all over the Seattle metro area are lighting up with Dan Cooper’s bills. All the local PDs are stationing cops near strip malls and the stretches of main thoroughfares where gas stations are clustered so they can swoop in and arrest the next thug to pass one of those twenties. It’s exposing Whelan’s entire network.” Matt’s laugh bordered on delighted giddiness.
“And you got Whelan himself?” I was most interested in the fate of my Numero Siete.
Matt nodded. “Three hours ago. He still thought you were locked in that storeroom. No one had had the courage to tell him you’d escaped. When he found out you’re free and eager to testify he lawyered up. But we have him on too many charges. He’ll probably plea out, but he’ll be spending the rest of his quality years behind bars.”
“So it was worth it,” Walt murmured.
“Of course,” Matt continued, “the Bureau realizes that now we’ll never catch the original Dan Cooper—if he’s still alive.” He squinted hard at me, then his face split into a grin again. “You know what? I think we’re okay with that.”