Totally Fishy (A Miller Sisters Mystery) (24 page)

"Well, did you kill anyone yet?"

"Uh yes, we did, but not exactly the people we were supposed to kill."

The man could feel his blood pressure rising. "What do you mean, you idiot? Who the hell are you killing up there?"

"Well, sir, a car thief, a bank robber, and a cat, to be exact."

"A cat? A goddamn
cat.
I didn't send you up there to murder a cat. You're fired, both of you, and you are dead men when I get my hands on you. Do you hear me?
Dead!"

"Yes, sir, we hear you. We have already decided we do not make good assassins. We will not be coming back to South America then. You can understand that, I am sure. We will get jobs and pay you back the money we have spent. Think of it this way; you have saved money by not having to pay us the second installment."

"Second installment! What are you, some kind of smart ass? Your second installment is going to be a bullet in your miniscule brain, you imbecile."

"Sir, we wish to ask that you not hurt these people. They are not bad people. If you were to meet with them you would see for yourself that they are–"

"Don't tell me you spoke with them. I suppose you told them about the hit too, didn't you?"

"No, sir, we mind our…"

"Liars! What do you know about the mine? Did you say anything to them about the mine? You keep your mouths shut, do you hear me? Or I will personally make sure it takes days for you to die! He slammed the phone down so hard it rattled in the base.

Tom pocketed the cell phone and blew out a shaky breath. Mark clicked off the small recorder. They both sat in silence a moment and Mark said, "Now what?"

"Now we find the Sheriff and hope he can protect us when the assassin comes to get us, that's what."

"Do you really think he will do that?"

"Let us hope this Sheriff Green is an honest man and does not sell us out to the real assassin. American police make deals all the time. Dirty cops. The Mob, don't you watch CSI?"

Mark stood and pocketed the recorder. "Let us go and find Sheriff Green now. How much time do you think we have?"

Tom thought a minute. "Probably no more than forty-eight hours. If he is rich enough, he could hire a private plane, but that would draw attention. I believe they will fly commercial, and they will fly as soon as possible."

"Yeah, and we have drawn enough attention to ourselves already. Maybe since we killed only bad guys we will not be executed. Or deported." Mark thought a moment. "Maybe we can tell them we came to protect Luis and Alfredo, and Mr. Bad Guy is coming for them as well as the scientists."

"We can try, but we will be lucky if the Americans don't kill us first."

"They won't."

"How do you know?"

"There is no death penalty in Wisconsin, I checked."

Tom thought for a moment. He put his hand on Mark's arm. "We have to tell the truth. You know, my almost brother, we are dead men no matter what happens?"

"Yes, I know, but we need to make sure the doctors, Luis, and Alfredo are safe. They are good people and do not deserve their fate. We will die as men of honor, instead of the greedy snail slime we were paid to be."

Mark held out his hand. "Then we are together on this,
amigo
?"

Tom grabbed his hand and dragged him close to hug Mark tight. "We are together, my American brother. Let us go now, and try to stop a very bad man."

* * *

Reymundo was irritable and cold by the time he hit Chicago. The rental agency screwed up his car reservation, but in keeping with the low-profile persona he adopted, he made no complaint. The rental company offered limo service to wherever he wanted to go. He thought about it and figured he would allow the limo driver to take him. By the time Reymundo finished business in Wisconsin; he would eliminate the driver, ditch the car, and return to South America before the rental agency knew anything was amiss.

The agency retrieved his overnight bag and Reymundo retrieved the handgun and map left for him in an airport locker. The bouncy little girl behind the counter ordered a limousine and asked Reymundo where he wanted to go. He replied, "Joliet," after consulting a map. Within minutes, they had him whisked off on a golf cart, and in no time, he climbed in to a silver limousine parked at the curb.

Perfect, he thought as he settled in the back seat. The car is full of gas and the windows are blacked out.
Hah
. Americans are so stupid. They pulled away from the curb and continued around the circle to the Interstate. Heading south on I-294, the chatty limo driver bought into Reymundo's feigned interest in Chicago and lowered the partition. He began a monologue about all the famous people who had ridden in his limo, and threw in tidbits about Chicago history as well. Reymundo listened with half an ear as he looked for an opportunity to begin his work.

As traffic slowed for yet another tollbooth, he asked the driver if he would pull off the Interstate so Reymundo could take a picture of the skyline. Being an affable guy, the driver did as asked. He pulled off the Interstate and looked over his right shoulder, prepared to begin his narrative on Al Capone.

He looked Reymundo up and down and said, "Hey buddy, where's your camera?"

Reymundo just smiled and calmly leaned forward. With his right hand he brought the 9mm up and popped the driver in the forehead.

Wiping the blood and grey matter off the end of the silencer, Reymundo said, "You forgot to smile, Mr. Limo Driver." Chuckling at his own joke, Reymundo crammed the driver's hat on his own head.

After stuffing the driver onto the passenger side floor, he climbed in behind the wheel.

Throwing his overnight bag on top of the body, he pulled back onto the Interstate. He got off at the next exit and pulled into a truck stop. Other limousines were parked in the lot, so Reymundo figured he wouldn't attract much attention. He drove behind the last row of trucks slowly, opened the passenger door, and shoved the body out into the weeds with his foot.

Reymundo closed the door and proceeded to the truck stop exit. He pushed the hat forward at a cocky angle over his brow and smiled arrogantly in the mirror. "How was that, Mr. Capone?" He smiled as he drove away.

He got back on the Interstate, heading the opposite direction. He reset the GPS and found a radio station he liked. He hummed along to a tune his mother had sung to him in a different life. He realized what he was doing and smashed the off button. "Where did that come from?" He growled, as he pulled off his glove to suck on his bloody knuckle. "Focus, Reymundo, focus." He put his glove back on and drove the rest of the way north in silence.

19

Thanksgiving is always an ordeal at the Miller household. This year with all the extra guests, it promised to beat all previous records. Al, Mag, me, Mom, Dad, and Sam sat around Mom's kitchen table and discussed plans for the big day. We decided to have it at Fred's this year because she had a formal dining room, a huge kitchen, and five of the guests were housed there. We took a vote (as this
is
a Democracy), and then we made Sam tell Fred.

I was glad it wasn't at my house. It's rather small and it would take an Act of Congress to remove all the hidden dog hair so it didn't end up in the eggnog. Al's house was a bitch because of the white carpet and it looked like normal sized people would break the uncomfortable and spindly antique chairs–and since we live in Wisconsin,
normal
to us is plus-size in California. I hate Al's house. Al hates my dogs. It's a mutual thing we handle most maturely; it usually involves a lot of yelling and name calling, then deciding the party would be held at Mom's or Fred's.

Fred's house is beautiful, big, and roomy; with huge comfy leather chairs and old polished pine floors which seem to invite clamoring feet and doggy toenails. Fred's house seems busy-cum-chaotic on a peaceful day, perfect for the mayhem we expected on Thanksgiving.

I picked up J.J. and his deep fried turkey on my way over. Because his mom's quilting circle had volunteered to serve turkey dinner at the old folk's home in town, she wouldn't make it to Fred's until after dinner. Sylvia called me and asked (ordered) me to pick up J.J., and she would be over later with his car. I did as I told, and soon J.J. sat next to me, babbling on about his wonderful turkey fryer, and I nodded and smiled, while inside the idea of fried turkey made me rather queasy.

I didn't want to hurt Green's feelings, so I didn't tell him I had a cooked and sliced a turkey hid under the far back seat. I triple wrapped it in hopes Wesley wouldn't give it away, because if that dog knew it was there, it would be history. When we arrived at Fred's, we saw Mag bundled up and standing in the driveway, cooking yet another turkey on the grill–looked to me like she's a little afraid of fried turkey too. We yelled, "Hi," as J.J., Wes, Hill, and I piled in the back door, arms loaded with turkey, beer, and buns.

I let J.J. deal with Mom and the unpacking while I snuck out the back door with a couple of beers and said to Mag, "Here, Master Baster, have some anti-freeze."

She took the beer and looked over her shoulder. "Thanks. I heard that J.J. was, of all things,
frying
a turkey?" I nodded and took a swig. She said, "The thought made me very afraid, so I'm cooking an extra one in case his tastes like turkey jerky, or turkey poopie, or something equally obnoxious."

I threw back my head and we laughed. I held up my brewski and we clinked bottles. "So did I. We shared a good laugh over the fact that with three turkeys and we'd have leftovers for everyone. She took the turkey off the grill and we hustled it into the house.

The kitchen overflowed with the wonderful smells of baking holiday pies and breads, brewing coffee, and roasting sage. Roasting sage? "Hey, Mom," I yelled over the din, "You're not cooking a turkey, are you?"

She bustled over to where I stood and yanked me down to her five-foot-two level and whispered, "Don't you tell, J.J. or you'll hurt his feelings. This is just in case J.J.'s turkey sucks. Now out of my way, shoo! She flapped the dishtowel she held at me and I skedaddled, wondering if the soup kitchen would need a couple of extra turkeys–maybe we could pawn off the fried one on them.

Pasting a serene smile on my face, I went back to taking in the ambience of Thanksgiving. One of my favorite things when growing up was to run outside, take a deep breath, and run in the back door just to inhale those smells. I opened my eyes to see Mag with hers closed, absorbing the smells like we were both kids again. She looked at me and smiled. I grabbed her, hugged her close, and said softly, "You still do that too?" She nodded; her eyes suspiciously damp.

"By the way," I said out of the corner of my mouth. "Mom's making a turkey too."

"For real?"

"Yeah, for real."

Still snickering, we walked into the controlled chaos. It was a beehive of activity as Luis pulled pies out of the oven, and Fred and Sam sliced a ham at the sideboard. Mom stood whipping potatoes, and Dad leaned against a counter, eating Doritos. The back door banged open. Al struggled through, loaded down with bags and boxes, and dressed like she was going to a Broadway opening. She teetered on her high heels as her packages hung off her body in a delicate balance.

She would have made it to the counter unscathed except for the fact that 160 pounds of happy Newfoundland chose that particular moment to check out the newcomer in the kitchen and show her the love. Wesley whooshed past me through the kitchen door from the living room like a runaway freight train. He slammed on his brakes, but as Physics 101 teaches us, 160 pounds of mass times velocity makes it impossible to stop a furry, runaway train skidding along a newly waxed wood floor in ten feet or less.

We all watched in frozen fascination as imminent doom hung over Al's teetering body. One of her stiletto heels caught in Fred's rag rug by the back door. Oblivious to the peril she faced, Al continued to lift her foot up and down, trying to rid her heel of the string. It was like watching a Hitchcock movie camera as it panned in on a clueless Al (coincidentally looking, today, like Janet Lee from
Psycho
), the screen suddenly flashed to Wesley "Bates" Miller as he barreled his way toward his victim swooping in for the kill.

At the last second, Al looked up to see Wesley's black hairy face bearing down on her. She took in the lolling tongue hanging from his grinning maw and screamed like she was being hacked to pieces in a shower stall. She scared the beegeezes out of Wes, who tried desperately to slam on the brakes.

His huge hairy paws backpedaling on the slippery floor, poor Wes looked for, all the, world like Scooby-doo when he saw a ghost. Some smart-ass must have thought the same thing, because large hands grabbed my shoulders from behind, and I heard "Rutt–Roe, he-he-he-he-he-he," right before the crash.

How Wes avoided a full frontal, I don't know, because Al stood there like six feet worth of limp lettuce as the dog sideswiped her legs. With the proficiency of a skilled gigolo, Wes used the last of his forward momentum to slide his wet cold nose up Al's legs, landing it directly into her crotch. Now I don't know what that gesture says about Wesley's choice between Al's cooch and Al's cooking, but I do know what it said about the load of food she carried.

Letting out a howl that could shatter glass, Al whacked Wes with a bag of dinner rolls, which promptly blew up and shot into the air. Wes abandoned his quest of imparting his special hello to Al, and tried instead to catch a dinner roll on the fly.