Gone South (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 3)

Prologue

The sky was cloudy and the night dark, his palms sweaty and his coffee cold.
He glanced out the window of the diner but saw little more than his own reflection in the glass.
A streetlight lit the detritus in the gutter beside a newspaper vending machine.
He checked his watch.
It was fifteen minutes past the hour, that is if his cheap digital still kept accurate time.
Late, as usual, he thought, drumming his nicotine
-
stained fingers on the Formica table top.
He was dying for a smoke.

“You want me to heat that up for you, mister?”

He was startled by the sudden appearance of the waitress carrying a steaming pot of java.
For the moment he couldn’t comprehend the simple question.

“What do you want?”

“Would you like me to freshen up your coffee?”

“No.”

He chanced being scalded by placing his palm over the top of his mug.
All he wanted was to be left alone, that and for the person he’d been waiting for to arrive.
He turned away hoping the waitress would leave
,
which mercifully she did.

Not knowing what else to do with his nervous hands, he reached inside his coat after a cigarette he knew he would not be allowed to smoke inside the diner.
He just wanted to hold the thing in his hand, maybe taste the unfiltered, tobacco
-
laced tip in his mouth.
Instead, his nervous fingers lit upon a newspaper article he’d torn that morning from the back pages of the Duluth News Tribune.

“Anthropologist Found Dead in Manitoba Outback,” the headline screamed.
The picture that accompanied the article showed a group of heavily clothed individuals facing the camera and frowning.
According to the caption, the picture had been taken in the town of McIntyre’s Gulch, Manitoba.
The pretty girl on the far right was named Butterscotch Jones.
The name had been circled.
The man gazed at her picture
,
as he had several times that morning
,
before pocketing the worn and frayed newspaper clipping.
He hadn’t seen her face in ten years, maybe twelve, but still he was sure it was her.

Consulting his watch one last time, he decided he’d waited as long as he could.
By standing he showed that he was short of stature and wore a rumpled, worn suit
that
looked like he’d slept in
it
.
He dropped six bits on the table and made his way toward the door.

He needed to get ahold of his contact, but he also needed to heed the warning to avoid using his cell phone.
Fortunately, he remembered seeing a pay
phone on the corner.
As he made his way to the well-lit phone booth, his eyes scanned the darkness for danger.
Seeing nothing to give him pause, he opened the accordion door and dropped a dime in the slot.
He dialed the number from memory.

Receiving no answer, he waited for the voicemail to pick up before slamming the receiver back into its cradle.
Any message he left now would be found too late for his purposes.
He exited the phone booth and lit a cigarette.
The flame of his lighter temporarily impaired his night vision.
He took several nervous puffs and began walking back to the diner.
I’ve gotta get out of this racket,
he thought
.
I’ve been pushin’ my luck too long.
That’s when he noticed the car parked across the street with the two dark silhouettes sitting in the front seat.

He stopped.
The ignition of the car turned over.
He tossed his cigarette into the gutter and turned to run.
The lights of the car sprang to life as the car jumped away from the curb amid the squeal of rubber on asphalt.

The lone figure made it only as far as the phone booth on the corner before the front right fender of the speeding automobile clipped him
,
hurling his body against the glass wall of the booth.
Glass exploded at the concussive impact of the body.
The light in the booth blew out.
The man’s broken and torn body fell to the sidewalk like that of a ragdoll.

The car came to a sudden stop at the curb.
A
scarred
face turned to glance out the window at the fallen body.
Then tires squealed and smoked as the car raced off into the night.

The night fell silent again.
Then that silence was broken by the sound of footsteps coming from a nearby alley.
A man in a dark trench coat and hat, wearing practical black dress shoes, walked to the curb and knelt down beside the body.
He checked for a pulse at the fallen man’s neck.
Pulling a cell phone from his pocket, he flipped open the clamshell and speed
-
dialed a number.

“This is Desoto,” he announced when his call was answered.
“I need an ambulance rushed to the corner of Park and Grant.
I’ve got a man down, badly injured after a hit-and-run incident.”

He flipped the phone shut and consulted his watch.
It was just approaching the hour.
Checking the downed man’s watch he found that it was half an hour fast.
He checked the man’s coat pockets and discovered a rumpled newspaper clipping.
He clicked on a penlight and started to read.

The name Butterscotch Jones had been circled.

Chapter 1

The Flowers
, t
he Butcher of Minsk
,
and Big John were listening in
on my call
. The owner of the Lonesome Moose is our mayor and a big wheel in
t
he Gulch. Of course, we are rather short of wheels of any kind
,
so being the biggest doesn’t mean a whole lot. Big John was mayor because he had a telephone
and no one else wanted the job
.

Frankly, I was too stunned at what the voice in my ear was saying to even try to order them away. The person on the other end of the
crackling
line wasn’t one I had ever thought to hear from again.

“Which hospital?” I asked. My voice was so calm
considering I was speaking to a ghost
.

There was some noise, the phone changing hands.

“Grace Memorial in Duluth,” the new voice was more competent though not compassionate. I guess
the other
end of the conversation had made the nurse think that compassion wasn’t needed.

“Thank you for calling. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

“Best hurry,” she said and hung up.

I put the phone down too.
I didn’t look up. I needed another minute to gather my thoughts.

“You don’t look so good,” Big John said. “Bad news?”

My father had found me. That was very bad news. However, that wasn’t what Big John meant and I saw no need to explain the potential trouble. Not yet.

I tried to decide what to tell Big John. Our old selves don’t exist. We never ask each other about our pasts
—
when or where we were born, about former lovers or family
, education or jobs
. It
never
comes up. You are born again the day you move to
t
he Gulch. You get a new name and a new birthday
and a new occupation
.
Really, it was a lot like going into a witness protection program. Except without government approval. In fact, often with government disapproval.

Having someone from my old life intrude was highly irregular.

“My father is
in
the hospital. In Duluth. Hit and run.
I guess it’s bad.
” My voice was getting weaker. The Flowers pushed me into a chair and then urged me to put my head between my knees.

“I didn’t know he was still alive,” Big John said.
You would dent your truck if you backed into him. Until he spoke he was formidable. After that the image was ruined.
Big John
was a double helping of John Candy with a marshmallow heart.
I could feel his sympathy.
This didn’t seem the moment to tell him that life with father was the stuff alcohol addictions were made of.

“Neither did I.” My voice was muffled, but they heard me. “The Wings is still outside, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. You want me to get him?”

“Just tell him I need to get to Winnipeg. By tonight.”

“Winnipeg?”

“I need to call Chuck.” I sat up slowly and reached for the phone. I would call him at home. All calls to the RCMP office were recorded. That might not be good since we were trying to make it look like our relationship was casual.

The Flowers and Big John shared a long look
and Sas
ha departed, probably to fetch t
he Wings
.
Everyone
liked t
he Mountie and more or less trusted him since they had little choice in the matter, but at the end of the day he was still the law and we were still the lawless. Distance should be maintained.

“Maybe t
he Wings can fly you over the border.”

“No. He said they are searching him every flight. If anyone will know how to get me across the border without trouble it will be Chuck.”

We all made an effort not to look uneasy. There was no such thing as an easy border crossing these days.

*  *  *

Inspector Horace Charles Goodhead, of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, was cooking up a storm in the tiny kitchen of his tiny apartment in downtown Winnipeg.
After receiving a voicemail from Butterscotch informing him that she would be stopping by to see him that night, he had immediately put in to take several days off work and hit the grocers to buy the makings for a lavish home
-
cooked meal.
He couldn’t cook a lot of dishes, but he was great with this one menu.
Additionally, he’d bought a fine California wine, candles, and the small gift of a diamond encrusted heart on a gold chain.
Now the lasagna and garlic bread were in the oven and a salad was waiting for the balsamic vinaigrette.
And for dessert, freshly baked chocolate cake from Annie’s Bakery.
He couldn’t remember the last time his place had smelled so heavenly.

Taking a quick break from the kitchen, he stopped by the small table that he’d prepared with the only two plates he owned that weren’t cracked or chipped.
He’d set them upon a brand new, white table linen he’d gotten as a gift last Christmas, along with a milk bottle stuffed with flowers.
He lit the two candles wedged into the tops of two beer bottles and gave his dingy utensils a quick polish with his shirttail.
Then he arranged the small velvet box containing the necklace beside Butterscotch’s plate.
All was now ready for a cozy dinner for two.