Cash & Carry (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 4) (2 page)

Skip had not given any indication of knowing the man, although he must have. Skip had just breezed me through the throng, up the stairs, and settled us into our box seats. He’d never left my side, the whole evening.

But that didn’t mean Skip didn’t have plenty of other ways of conducting business with Zimmermann.

And I was suddenly struck by how compartmentalized Skip had been, how carefully he’d orchestrated whom I would meet and whom I wouldn’t. He’d been rigid about keeping his charitable foundation, which I ran, separate from his day-to-day business operations. Even his own mother he’d kept at a distance from me. I’d thought it was because he was embarrassed by her alcoholism, but maybe there was more to his pattern of behavior than I’d previously assumed.

It was a lot to stew on, and time was short. Dad’s urgency had infected me, for good reason.

CHAPTER 2

I awoke to an email ding from Hugo Chávez. Yes, my mother’s assistant unfortunately shares a name with the deceased Venezuelan dictator. Which generally means that people don’t ignore his emails—well, once they realize that he isn’t spamming them from beyond the grave.

With his characteristic clipped efficiency, Hugo provided a list of ten Simons from my mother’s contact database, helpfully including those who held that designation as either their first or last name, which meant that some of the Simons were women—Ruth Ann Simon, Beverly Wagner (nee Simon) and so forth. To the best of his knowledge, he had never heard any of the Simons referred to as Squeaky, not even by their most dearly beloved. He couldn’t account for what their enemies might call them, he said.

I scowled and shut my laptop. Hugo’s dry humor takes some getting used to.

I scooted to the edge of the bed and slowly stretched my legs in the direction of the floor. Worrying about my Dad didn’t preclude me from daily duties. Since I was the owner of the only operational vehicle currently available, Clarice had assigned her extensive shopping list to me.

But that meant a day with Emmie. Good stuff.

oOo

Emmie and I set out immediately after breakfast, a layover at Tarq’s cabin the first item on our agenda.

For one thing, he needed to see Emmie. She seemed to brighten his days. I’d never received even an inkling of a hint that my lawyer had ever married, so I was even more certain that he’d never produced children. But now that he was dying, he seemed to crave the company of youngsters.

And I was teaching my mother-in-law, who lived with Tarq as a caretaker, how to knit. Now that Loretta had settled her new living arrangements to her satisfaction, she had a lot of time on her hands. She was taking to the needles and yarn like a house afire, and it wouldn’t be long before both she and Tarq would be clothed in handknit everything—vests, sweaters, socks, mittens, hats, shawls, scarves, ponchos. I hoped she would draw the line at pants, but there was no stopping the woman. Good thing we lived in a climate conducive to woolens.

We left when Tarq’s energy faded and he rambled back to his bedroom for a nap. But he and Loretta promised to swing by Mayfield in a day or two to check on the progress of the renovations out at the mechanics’ garage. Our batch of foster kids at the boys’ camp were getting a new dormitory.

Next stop was the general store in our neck of the woods. I laid the list on the counter, and Etherea Titus ran her knobby finger down the columns of supplies written in Clarice’s big, loopy handwriting, nodding gravely.

“When’ll you be back?” she asked.

I shrugged. “A few hours.”

“Short of the plums and nectarines, I’ll have your order ready for you. You California transplants don’t realize that some fruits have actual seasons, and while they might be available at other times, they sure aren’t worth eating unless they’re tree-ripened.” But Etherea was smiling, and she performed her comical bushy eyebrow wiggle-waggle in Emmie’s direction.

We made a few interim purchases because our treat for the day was going to be a playdate with my friend Selma and her shy four-year-old granddaughter, Mindy.

Emmie was cautiously excited about meeting another little girl even though Mindy was a couple years younger. Since Emmie was surrounded by boys at Mayfield, I thought a simple tea party might be a nice change of venue for her. Coloring books, finger paints, cookies, black olives, cheese and crackers for mini sandwiches, and hot cocoa would provide a good chance for the two grown-ups in attendance to catch up. Come to think of it, I hadn’t lunched with ladies for a really long time either.

Selma welcomed us into her tiny house with a warm smile and a long, tight hug for me. To Emmie, she said, “Mindy’s in the back bedroom, and she has a blanket tent all ready for you.”

Emmie shot me a wide-eyed, hopeful glance, and I gave her an encouraging nod. And then she was gone, finding her own way down the dim hallway to the delights beyond.

Selma and I settled on barstools at her kitchen island and dug into the Nutter Butters without hesitation.

“Day off?” I asked around a mouthful.

Selma nodded. “Since the bank manager decided he needed to offer Saturday hours, Thursdays are my regular day off. No complaints from me. It means I get Mindy one day a week, which also saves Laney some money because she’s not in daycare preschool that day.”

“How’s Laney’s new job?” I kind of hated to ask, but not asking would have been just as obvious.

“They haven’t fired her yet.” Selma’s wry smile didn’t successfully mask the worry in her eyes. Laney had been canned from her last job for drug use.

I reached over and squeezed her hand.

“Shouldn’t your little one be in school?” Selma asked.

I screwed up my face. “I just got her,” I whispered. “I hate the idea of being separated from her any more than necessary.”

“What about the boys’ camp? Walt’s overseeing their education, isn’t he? Any reason he couldn’t add a girl to his enrollment?” she asked.

I’d been thinking the same thing, but had postponed the actual discussion with Walt. I was afraid he’d tell me no, although my supposition wasn’t based in fact. Most of the boys at the camp were eleven and older, but there was Eli, who was eight, and the recent addition of the Clayborne trio who were six, eight, and ten. And given their tumultuous history, it wouldn’t surprise me if they were a little behind academically. Walt would have to add elementary coursework to his curriculum as it was.

My face must have betrayed my noncommittal apprehension because Selma took the opportunity to switch the subject. “Have you heard from Skip?”

I shook my head, which was technically true. I wanted to spare her the morass of details. What she knew was only the tip of the iceberg. Emmie and Mindy helped by choosing this moment to barge into the kitchen, all hot and flushed and thirsty from whatever imaginative activities, accompanied by excessive giggling and whispers, had been going on under the blanket tent.

Selma clucked about, putting the kettle on and preparing tiny plates with finger foods the girls could take back to their hideout.

When the kitchen was quiet again, Selma picked up one of the coloring books I’d brought. “I’ve always loved coloring. It’d be a shame for this not to get some attention.” Her huge brown eyes sparkled.

I laughed and opened the box of crayons. We spent the remaining hour engrossed in our pages but also talking—the easy, companionable, oh-did-I-mention type of rambling exchange that I had so dearly missed. Selma was balm to my soul.

I hated to leave, and so did Emmie, but we had a few more things to do. The girls held a whispered conference which I was pretty sure included promises for several next times, and then we trooped out through the drizzly rain and climbed into Lentil, my dented but faithful pickup.

Emmie waved vigorously to Selma and Mindy who stood on their stoop while I turned around on the narrow, potholed road. Then we headed off into the early dusk.

Winter nights, at least the ones accompanied by heavy, overcast cloud cover, start falling around 3:00 p.m. here above the forty-fifth parallel. It’s a gloomy business, and makes one desire roaring fires on stone hearths and cozy slippers.

Instead, we shivered and waited for Lentil’s heater to kick in. I pulled up at the stop sign at the end of Selma’s street and fiddled with the knobs even though I knew the hot air would take its own sweet time arriving.

Emmie had her forefinger in her mouth, wiggling her first loose tooth. It was such a silly, simple thing, but the wiggling grossed me out. It had been going on for about a week now. If it wasn’t her finger, it was her tongue probing and poking, widening the gap at the base of her tooth. She’d already started lisping a bit, probably in anticipation of the coming monumental event.

I shook my head in silent exasperation and lifted my foot off the brake. Lentil began to roll onto Woodland’s main arterial road, and that’s when I saw the semitruck.

Too close. Far too close. With no headlights in the gray haze of road spray. A white and chrome mass of phantom metal hurtling at us in the gloom.

I did several things simultaneously, none of them fast enough. I shot my right arm across Emmie’s chest and pinned her against the seat; I jammed my foot on the gas pedal until it wedged against the floor; and I wrenched the steering wheel almost all the way around.

There was a terrible squealing screeching noise like a soprano stuck, excruciatingly, in high C, her vocal cords twisted in knots. The sound slammed into my rib cage and pierced through my skull, but I kept cranking on the steering wheel, kept Emmie smashed against the upholstery.

My heart stopped beating, and time stood still.

And then I became aware that there was a grinding, crunching, low register noise, and it wasn’t coming from us. And that we’d stopped spinning.

My eyes sought the rearview mirror, and I saw the semi folded in on itself, the truck part nestled up against the trailer, cheek to cheek.

I slowly lowered my arm from across Emmie’s little body—she was going to have bruises—and stretched out a trembling hand to brush her dark hair away from her very pale face.

“Nora?” Her voice was so tiny, and then she started to cry. Big, gulpy sobs, and tears streamed off her chin.

I unbuckled both of our seat belts and cradled her against my chest. “Baby, baby,” I murmured into her hair, “are you okay?” I was crying too. And shaking violently.

She burrowed into me, and I hung onto her for dear life.

I don’t know how long we sat like that.

But slowly the desperate fog in my head cleared, and I realized that I should check on the other driver.

“Emmie,” I murmured, “I have to go. But I’ll come right back. Do you understand? Stay here where it’s safe. Do not get out of the truck.”

She whimpered, but I caressed her head and shifted her onto the seat.

“I’ll be right back,” I whispered again and opened my door.

The cold hit me like a shock wave from an explosion. We must have been sitting in the cab for a long time to warm it up so much. I latched the door closed and gave Emmie a wobbly smile through the window. Then I staggered toward the incapacitated semi.

We were in the far reaches of Woodland, where taxpayer dollars had fizzled out and there were no street improvements like curbs or sidewalks, no streetlights. Gravel was strewn across the road, no doubt churned up by the eighteen-wheeler’s tires as the semi had swept down the shoulder in order to avoid me.

But he had missed me—Emmie and me. Talk about a miracle.

I hoped he wasn’t injured. I started to jog, unevenly, but quicker.

A sheriff’s deputy had beaten me there. He was standing on the running board on the passenger side of the semitruck, leaning in through the open window. A voice was answering him back, which meant the driver was at least conscious.

I leaned against the side of the truck to catch my breath.

The deputy dropped down beside me. “Nora Ingram?” He sounded both surprised and pleased.

“Do I know you?” I wheezed.

“Nope.” He grinned. “But we all know you. You’ve been featured in department briefings rather frequently of late. I’m Sergeant Pettigrew—Cole Pettigrew.” He grabbed my elbow and leaned in close, concern all over his wide, freckled face. “You’re not hurt?”

I gave him a quick shake of the head, and he blew a low whistle. “Amazing. There ought to be injuries, considering.” He swept his hand across the scene of crunched metal and mean rubber streaks on the pavement. “But it’s gonna be a while before we can get tow trucks in here. How about if you wait in your pickup? If it’s warm?”

I had a sudden, deep-seated affection for this man. So calm, so orderly, so in-charge, so kind. I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do than return to Lentil’s steamy cab and hold Emmie.

oOo

The olive drab form on the other side of the condensation on my window turned out to be Sheriff Des Forbes. He’d brought a flashlight which he held clamped against the door frame over our heads to provide illumination. And his face was the gravest I’d ever seen, marked by deep shadows below his eyes.

I mutely handed him my insurance paperwork.

But he shook his head, and little droplets fell from the brim of his Stratton hat. “No charges. The other driver says he was going too fast for the conditions. His manager says their company insurance will pay for their damages, if you’ll cover yours.”

“I pulled out right in front of him,” I blurted.

“Then it’s your lucky day,” Des said. “In more ways than one. Nora, do you know how far you spun?”

I closed my eyes then opened them to refocus on the raindrops collecting, merging, and streaking on the windshield. An involuntary shudder shook me to my core, and Emmie anxiously glanced up into my face.