Cash & Carry (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 4) (18 page)

SNEAK PEEK

at the final installment in the Mayfield mystery series

TRIED & TRUE

A Mayfield Mystery — book #5

Jerusha Jones

Summoned to a conference with a loathsome biker gang president, Nora learns her phantom money-laundering husband is striking fear into the hearts (and guts) of his former clients. Can she capitalize on their trepidation without getting sucked into the criminal network’s implosion or facing retaliation herself for the ambitious plans Skip still has up his sleeve?

And what about gangster Numero Uno, the reclusive big cheese at the top of the West Coast’s organized crime pyramid? Can Nora lure him into the crossfire and rub out the aristocratic thug who is so carefully concealed behind his army of accountants and knee-bashers?

Nora’s only goal is to secure tranquility for Walt and the foster boys in residence on the Mayfield poor farm. But what will it take to earn her own freedom?

CHAPTER 1

The big moment had arrived. And I was as excited as the kids were. Emmie just about squeezed my hand off while we watched a dented pickup with a rusty horse trailer jockey into position.

Fletcher McCue craned his shaggy head out the window, one arm correctively twitching the steering wheel, as he guided the trailer to a shuddering stop a few feet from the open gate to the newest pen near the bunkhouse.

I had yet to formally meet Lois and Fletcher McCue, but already considered them acquaintances of the most pleasant variety. They owned the YeeHaw Hobby Farm in Kalama and were reputable breeders of miniature donkeys. We’d been emailing back and forth for the past week—first to establish the suitability of a donkey as a resident pet at a foster boys’ camp situated on an abandoned and derelict poor farm; then to set the price; then, to my surprise, to learn that donkeys establish life-long buddy relationships and would mope around, heartbroken, if separated.

Hence the four gigantic ears with tufted tips that I could just barely see through the open slats at the top of the trailer.

“Some driveway you’ve got here.” But Fletcher’s wry grin and twinkly eyes took any complaint out of his highly accurate, if understated, comment. I would have used the term
bone-jarring
if asked to describe the long track onto Mayfield property.

“Keeps the riffraff out.” I stepped forward and shook his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

“It’s a good day for it.” Lois scooted across the seat and hopped from the driver’s side of the pickup as well. “What a welcoming party.” She smiled at the ring of eager children.

Some of the oldest boys had decided witnessing a donkey delivery was beneath their dignity, but the thirteen-and-under crowd was in full attendance. Walt had deemed the event educational and therefore a permissible break from their studies.

Working in easy tandem, Lois and Fletcher unclasped the pins and dropped the ramp. Lois climbed inside first and emerged a minute later leading a cute little doe-eyed guy with knobby knees and a saggy belly and eyelashes that prompted my immediate envy. Fletcher led out an almost identical donkey, except this one had a light gray blaze down his nose.

“Pea and Queue,” Lois announced, pointing. “Half-brothers with the same sire.”

I held my breath, but she didn’t carry on with breeding notes. Which was good, because both of these fellows were gelded. I wasn’t relishing the idea of explaining why there wouldn’t be baby donkeys at Mayfield in the future and wanted to postpone that particular question from the group of curious children as long as possible. Maybe, when the time came, I’d suggest they go ask Walt instead.

Lois snapped her fingers and showed the children how the donkeys were trained to walk beside their person with that cue. Pea and Queue needed very little corrective action on their halters and strolled docilely at her hip the length of the pen and back.

Six-year-old Odell Clayborne, normally rather boisterous and audibly opinionated, was the first timid volunteer to offer a few carrot chunks to the donkeys under Lois’s gentle instruction. He’d been with us at Mayfield for a month, and he still swam in his clothes, despite eating his weight in food daily. But his delighted chuckle at the tickle of Pea’s fuzzy nose in his palm brought happy tears to my eyes.

This was so good. So very good. Boys who’d had no one—particularly not loving parents—to care for them until Walt took them in now had a couple more creatures to care for. Walt was doing an amazing job of modeling responsibility and compassion for the boys, but our growing menagerie of farm animals was also contributing to their training.

Besides, the donkeys were courtesy of the FBI or, more specifically, the mistress of my Numero Cuatro—the loan-sharking kingpin Martin Zimmermann.  I’d been keeping the FBI pretty busy lately, and my case manager, Special Agent Matt Jarvis, had yet to request the packet of hundred-dollar bills that Angelica Temple had given to me. The money had been payment for a stolen Art Deco emerald and diamond bracelet that she had subsequently lost in the marsh in my lawyer’s front yard.

The bracelet had been dredged up and submitted as evidence, but the money was still in my possession. Given this unprecedented unilateral access, I’d decided the FBI wouldn’t mind if the packet was short a few thousand dollars as long as I substituted a receipt for two therapy donkeys instead. Stuff just gets lost sometimes—in the paperwork shuffle, you know? It was a good investment.

I was pulled away from the pastoral scene by the ringing of one of the phones in my coat pockets.

“Punkin?” Gus said. “Do you know a guy named Todd Ebersole?” There was a growling noise in the background, and then Gus clarified, “Otherwise known as Tank?”

I’d frozen at Gus’s mention of the man’s proper name and was still stuck, mid-stride. “He’s not—is he there?” I whispered.

“Emissary,” Gus muttered. “In my shop. No rush, punkin, but when you get the chance, you might want to hear what he has to say.” His voice lowered another notch. “Working on his chain. We’ll be busy all afternoon.”

The call dropped, and I got the distinct impression someone had been standing at Gus’s shoulder, listening to his every word.

Maybe more than listening. Tank Ebersole wasn’t known for subtlety, and I doubted his emissaries were trained in the fine art of diplomacy either.

NOTES & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Woodland and Longview are both real cities along the I-5 corridor in southwest Washington State. However, I have taken tremendous liberties with spacing and locations, and all the retail establishments and institutions, including county government, described in the Mayfield series are entirely fictional and placed for the convenience of storytelling. If you decide to visit the area, though, I can promise you will find just as many trees, mountains, backroads, and neighborly folks—and as much rain—as described.

Profound thanks to the following people who gave their time and expertise to assist in the writing of this book:

Sergeant Fred Neiman Sr. and all the instructors of the Clark County Sheriff’s Citizen’s Academy. The highlights had to be firing the Thompson submachine gun and stepping into the medical examiner’s walk-in cooler. Oh, and the K-9 demonstration and the officer survival/lethal force decision making test. And the drug task force presentation with identification color spectrum pictures and the—you get the idea.

Beth Anne Steele of the FBI Public Affairs Office, Portland Division, for letting me attend the Community Relations Executive Seminar Training program even though my only (non)qualification is that I make stuff up for a living. And to the special agents and support staff who shared their knowledge and stories.

I claim all errors, whether accidental or intentional, solely as my own.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I live in a small town in the west end of the Columbia River Gorge. When I grow up, I fully intend to be a feisty old lady. In the meantime, I regularly max out my library's lending limit, have happily declared a truce with the clover in the lawn, but am fanatical about sealing up cracks in my old house, armed with a caulking gun. Due to the number of gaps I have yet to locate, however, I have also perfected my big spider shriek.

I love wool socks, Pink Lady apples with crunchy peanut butter, scenery of breathtaking grandeur, and weather just cool enough to require a sweater, all of which are plentiful in the Pacific Northwest. I am eternally grateful to have escaped the corporate world with its relentless, mind-numbing meetings and now write (or doodle or fantasize or cogitate or stare out the window or whatever you want to call it) full time.

I post updates on my website
www.jerushajones.com

If you'd like to be notified about new book releases, please sign up for my email
newsletter
. Your email address will never be shared, and you can unsubscribe at any time.

I love hearing from readers at [email protected]

To see all my other books on Amazon.com, including the Imogene Museum mystery series, click here
amazon.com/author/jerushajones

Also by Jerusha Jones

The Imogene Museum Mystery Series

Rock Bottom

Doubled Up

Sight Shot

Tin Foil

Faux Reel

Shift Burn