Gone South (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 3) (6 page)

The first step in executing the trick involved letting out enough fishing line to stretch across the street to Mr. Harbottle’s home.
Danny, the smallest and sneakiest of the group, was assigned to run the line across the street and attach the hook on the end to the screen on Mr. Harbottle’s kitchen window.
This was the trickiest part of the operation since Mr. Harbottle was presently in his kitchen washing dishes.
However, Danny was nimble and executed his assignment flawlessly and raced back across the street to rejoin the group.

The prank was now ready to be set in motion.

Resting the fishing pole down beside him, Chuck pulled the fishing line taut and began rubbing the line with the damp cloth.
The friction of the cloth on the fishing line sent tiny vibrations up the line toward Mr. Harbottle’s home.
By the time those vibrations reached the screen in the old man’s kitchen window, they had been amplified a thousand times.
The vibrations in the line were transferred to the screen
,
which caused the screen to rattle violently, setting off a terrible clatter.

Old man Harbottle rushed to the kitchen window to see what was wrong.
There was nothing obvious. All he saw was an innocent group of boys standing across the street talking with one another.
After looking around for a good while, he returned to washing his dishes and Chuck returned to rubbing the line.
The next time the old man actually ran out his front door to confront the person beating on the side of his home.
Again, all he saw was an innocent
-
looking group of boys standing across the street chatting.

The prank went on for several repetitions before Mr. Harbottle noticed the fishing line and found the hook attached to his screen.
Following the line across the street, he traced the source of all the clatter to Chuck.
All his friends had run away, but Chuck stood his ground, unwilling to leave his dad’s fishing rod behind.

Mr. Harbottle looked Chuck in the eye and Chuck felt his knees begin to shake.
Then all at once the old man broke out in peals of laughter.
Surprised at first, Chuck readily joined in.
His friends poked their heads out of nearby bushes, shocked at what they were hearing.
Old man Harbottle was actually laughing.

“Son, that’s the best prank I ever did see,” Mr. Harbottle confessed.

“Thanks,” Chuck replied.

“Would you like to come inside for some lemonade and cookies?”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

Thus began the friendship between Mr. Harbottle and the neighborhood kids.
From that day forward Chuck and his friends visited often.
Mr. Harbottle shared stories from his youth and taught the kids how to whittle and spit (as they say), taught them to work on bikes
,
and even gave
a
few driving lessons when they were old enough.

Old man Harbottle died five years later of heart failure.
There weren’t many adults at his funeral, and none shed any tears, but all the kids in the neighborhood were in attendance and the old man was sorely missed.

I sighed happily. That was just the kind of
normal
thing I had wanted
to
hear.
Maybe other kids had wanted stories about princesses and pirates. I always wanted to hear how regular people lived.

I pulled off my borrowed wig but didn’t look in the
bathroom
mirror
while I brushed my teeth
and swallowed a couple aspirin
. It had been a rough couple of days and I didn’t possess the fortitude to face the disaster that was my hair.
At least
t
he
border
crossing had gone well. Going back into Canada, no one had questioned Chuck’
s credentials or character
as he was a member in good standing on the RCMP,
and no one search
ed
the Rover.

By dusk we were back at his apartment, which now looked surprisingly welcoming.
I really hate hospitals.

I could smell the lasagna that Chuck was reheating and my appetite returned with a vengeance.

There was lingering nervousness,
a few nerves still shrilling and worrying,
but that would fade out with the adrenaline. In a few days, everything would be back to normal.

*  *  *

Brian O’Shay finished his smoke on the balcony of the RCMP headquarters in Winnipeg and indiscriminately flicked the butt out into the parking lot below.
It was damp so there was no danger of fire. Not that that would have stopped him from pitching his cigarette anyway.

He was about to go back inside when his cell phone began to chime Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.
He stopped to take the call in privacy.

These days he was never sure who might be calling him on his private line.
It could be any of his present handlers including several organized crime lords, the RCMP, FBI, or CIA.
Hell, for all he knew he was being called by MI5 or the newly reformed KGB.
Or possibly one of several young women he’d left his number with at the club the night before.
Whichever proved to be the case, he was sure that it would involve a conversation he’d rather others weren’t listening in on
—
that is, assuming his line wasn’t being tapped.

Brian pulled up a seat and answered by the third measure of the ringtone.

“Speak.”

“This is Eli.”

Alright, so now he knew who was calling.
He still needed to remember if he was currently lying to this contact this week or if they were in cahoots.
Brian chose to play it straight for the time being and see where things led.

“So speak,” he said again.

“What do you know about this Butterscotch Jones and her boyfriend, Chuck?”

Brian had to think for a moment, but it didn’t take long to find the name in his mental files. Everything about McIntyre’s Gulch had been annoying.

“Yeah, I know Butterscotch Jones alright, but I’m not familiar with her boyfriend. Is he local?”

“Don’t think so.”

Then the second part of the story dawned on him as well.

“Wait a second.
You aren’t talking about Inspector Charles Goodhead of the RCMP, are you?” Mr. Stick-up-the-butt.

“Mountie, hey?”

“That’s right.
He works on my floor. I think he has an apartment here in Winnipeg.”

The line went dead.
Brian put away his cell phone and lit another cigarette.
Blowing smoke into the gray, cloud
-
covered afternoon, he had to smile.
Looked like Chuck might be in for a late night surprise.

*  *  *

Everyone at the table looked up when the door opened and Agent Desoto entered the room.
They’d been waiting for the agent
in charge
to arrive for nearly half an hour.
During his absence, they’d exchanged small talk, but felt, rightfully, that they couldn’t discuss anything important until he was present.
Desoto walked across the room, exuding his natural authority, and took his seat at the head of the table.

“Thank you for showing up on time,” he said.
“I’m sorry for being late myself.”

He offered no explanation for keeping everyone waiting, nor was there any expected.
Everyone at the table knew that the agent was busy.
And besides, no one wanted to get on his bad side.
There were rumors about his bad side that were part fact, a dash of myth, and pure legend throughout the agency.

After opening the folder that had been set before him on the table, the meeting began.

“For those of you who have yet to read the full report, we found one of our contacts this morning in his hospital room, strangled to death.
The contact had been admitted to the hospital last night after a hit-and-run incident.
His hospital room had been searched, as if somebody was looking for something they wanted badly.

“Agent Reese, perhaps you could explain why you weren’t at your post guarding the contact’s hospital room.”

Agent Reese cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
He knew that the conversation would eventually center on his activities at the hospital this morning.
He had hoped that the questioning wouldn’t begin so soon or so abruptly.

“I was at my post this morning guarding the hospital room when I observed a man and a woman enter our contact
’
s room.”

“Did you challenge them?”

“No, I did not.”

“Why not?”

“They didn’t appear to me to fit the profile of assassins sent to murder our patient.
In fact, they looked more like friends or family.”

“Very well.
Then what happened?”

“The couple left the hospital room soon after entering and I followed.”

“Why?”

“I preceded them to my car downstairs so that I could take pictures of them leaving the hospital and the vehicle the
y
drove away in.”

“And we assume that the assassin entered the hospital room while you were gone from your post.”

Reese made no reply.

“And these are the pictures that you took?” Desoto asked, pulling several enlarged photographs from his file.

“That’s right, sir.”

“And do we know the identities of either the man or the woman?”

“The
nursing staff says the
woman identified herself as a
niece and the man
as a
close friend of our contact upon arrival.
The admitting nurse couldn’t remember the name she used.”

“And the Manitoba license pla
t
e.
Have we traced it?”

“Yes, sir.
The Range Rover in the pictures belongs to a
n
RCMP inspector named Horace Goodhead.
He owns a small condominium in Winnipeg.”

Desoto digested this.

“Anything of interest found in the
hospital
room?”

“Nothing.
All prints found were traced to the patient or hospital staff,” a man in a lab coat replied.
“There were no personal effects beyond torn clothing.”

There was silence in the room while Agent Desoto read through the report.
Unable to contain himself, one of the other men sitting at the table broke the silence with the question they’d all been wanting to ask.

“So, where do we go from here, sir?
Is this the end?
”

Desoto looked up from his report and frowned.

“Officially, this
part of the investigation
is closed.
Unofficially, Dawson, I’d like you to book me on a redeye to Winnipeg tonight.
Oh, and by the way, you and Reese will be accompanying me.”
Unspoken was the message that Reese had messed up so he was going to help clean up.
The fact that he hated flying was of no interest to Agent Desoto.

And with that, the meeting was over.
Desoto rose and left the room.
As he walked the hall back to his office he was haunted by the picture in the newspaper clipping he’d found on their contact’s body
the night of the hit and run
.
Though the hair was different, the woman in the clipping matched the woman who had entered their contact’s room moments before
their contact
was murdered.

And then there was the peculiar name to consider.
Butterscotch Jones.

“Dawson,” he said as his subordinate passed in the hall.

“Sir?”

“Tell me what you found on McIntyre’s Gulch.”

“Well, sir, very little actually,” Dawson lowered his voice. “The main thing about this place seems to be that everyone is either a McIntyre or a Jones.”

This wasn’t the best news, Desoto reflected, but with the woman’s red hair
—

“And everyone has red hair.”

“Everyone?”

“Yes. That’s what our Canadian contacts report. All Jones
es
, McIntyres
,
and redheads.”

“Jesus! How inbred is this place?”

“Apparently very. Oh, and they have a bear problem.
There have been several fatalities.
”