Read Tried & True (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 5) Online
Authors: Jerusha Jones
Tried & True (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 5)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 by Jerusha Jones
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
For more information about Jerusha Jones’s other novels, please visit www.jerushajones.com
Cover design by Elizabeth Berry MacKenney. www.berrygraphics.com
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 moisture 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 return of 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.
oOo
There were all kinds of subtext layers in Gus’s brief comments, and I tried to parse through them quickly while my stomach wrenched itself into knots. And while I made a mad dash for my pickup.
I’d flashed an I-gotta-go wave to Clarice. She’d give my apologies to the McCues for not seeing them off. I’d also have to answer to Clarice later for my sudden exit, but there wasn’t time to make my excuses now.
When Gus had said, “No rush,” I knew he meant for me to mask the distance I live from his shop. But there actually was a monstrous urgency, because I didn’t want Gus to spend more time alone with Tank Ebersole’s emissary than absolutely necessary, and that amount of time had already passed.
Not that Gus couldn’t take care of himself. He was a former Green Beret. But this was danger not of his own making, and which he had not signed up for. Although it was possible he would garner a protective measure of respect from the Mongrels outlaw motorcycle club member due to his own Harley proclivities and mechanical prowess.
The Mongrels were violent and volatile. They controlled cocaine, marijuana, and meth distribution along large swaths of the West Coast—basically any portions of the region that weren’t under the influence of inner-city gangs. There were also rumors about gun-running in the same channels, maybe prostitution.
And they weren’t shy. In fact, they delighted in blatant, in-your-face obscenity. Their arrival en masse would clear out a crowded shopping mall on a weekend faster than the suggestion of the Ebola virus run amok. Average citizens generally weren’t aware of the gang’s existence until they witnessed one of these jaw-dropping displays of roaring noise and terrifying, swarming presence. Like locusts—but dripping with chains, knives, leather, tattoos, and body odor.
I grabbed my keys and tote bag from the kitchen and climbed into Lentil’s cab. My trusty steed, which Gus had done such a superb job of souping-up. She’d be going through her paces today.
I charged over the gullies and ruts of Mayfield’s driveway and plowed up onto the county road. I considered notifying my FBI surveillance team about my destination and decided against it, for the moment. Until I knew what Ebersole’s emissary had to say, it didn’t seem prudent. Gus’s choice of the word
emissary
gave me a tiny bit of hope—perhaps false hope, but I trusted Gus’s judgment.
Enforcer
would have prompted a completely different level of panic.
Tank Ebersole was on my list of Numeros—the criminal money laundering clients my husband, Skip, had done business with. And whom I had bilked out of millions when I’d drained the accounts and diverted the funds to charities. Numero Ocho, to be exact.
Due to his vulgar personality, Ebersole had been one of the easier Numeros to identify. Early on in this fiasco that was my life since Skip’s disappearance on our honeymoon, my executive assistant, Clarice, had dredged up a wealth of news articles on him.
He was one scary dude. And his carefully cultivated image—crazy exploits and wall-to-wall tattoos on his expansive hide—backed up the reality of his vindictive nature. He loved getting into the faces of petite, bleached-blonde television reporters who tottered in their spiked heels, flinging spittle and jabbing a grimy-nailed forefinger toward the uppermost buttoned button of their blouses. Consequently, they never really got around to asking him the hard questions.
He’d been arrested multiple times, but never spent more than a year or two in jail in any given stretch. The stints inside only seemed to enhance his reputation and the loyalty of his followers, and I had no doubt he’d managed to run his operation from behind bars just as well as he did from the freedom of the highways.
The guy was brazen, brash, terrifying, and very, very slippery. A big, hairy, greased barracuda.
And one of his trusted lieutenants was in Gus’s service station, possibly putting the screws on my good friend.
I turned right and then right again into the back entrance to the general store’s gravel parking lot. I figured Etherea and Bob Titus, the proprietors, wouldn’t mind if I left my truck hidden behind the store next to their aging Scout II Traveler.
I jogged across the intersection and entered Gus’s place through the post office entrance. The roll-up garage door to his service bay was closed, probably due to the frigid temperature, but also quite possibly to hide the unusual occupants.
The postal counter and cubbyholes behind it were bare of envelopes and packages. Even given the number of general delivery customers Gus had, there wasn’t much going on in the form of snail mail written communication in this part of May County.
But Gus’s station and the general store served as an information clearinghouse—especially for outsiders who were seeking a local address and couldn’t find it. Nearly all the deliveries I’d received at Mayfield came with their assistance—either in their signing for packages and taking it upon themselves to deliver them or calling me to come pick them up. Which is also how I expected Tank Ebersole’s emissary had ended up here. Gus and Etherea were my gatekeepers, by default and out of necessity, but I hated that the combination of our small town ways and my criminal cohorts put them into danger.
I peeked through the doorway into Gus’s service shop—and saw the burly backsides of two bikers. In fact, I was at eye level with the logo of a snarly bulldog wearing an eye patch and spiked collar centered on the backs of their black leather vests. Lest there be any confusion, a curved patch over the dog image said
Mongrels
. The word
California
was inscribed in another curved patch below the menacing canine.
They’d come a long way to see me. And they were paying me no attention.
Quite possibly because some kind of metal grinding machine was making such a racket that I was sorely tempted to plug my ears to prevent hearing loss for the next fifty years. Instead, I jabbed my forefinger into the side of the closest guy—in the gap between the bottom of his vest and his tourniquet-style belt where his enormous gut was temptingly jiggly. My finger went in two knuckles deep.
He jumped about a mile, and I scowled at him on the way back down. In times like these, I had taken to donning my alter ego—the fierce persona which Clarice had so effectively tutored me in. Without her knowledge, probably, since it was her natural state, but I was an astute student.
The guy went pasty white under his walrus mustache and hollered, “Butch!” He made slicing motions across his neck with his hand. “Butch, we got company.”
The noise cut off to an eerily pinging silence. My herald massaged the new dimple I’d given him and sidled away from me, edging his buddy out of the way at the same time.
“Punkin,” Gus roared at a volume that would have been audible over the machinery that had just been switched off, “these fellas are here to see you.” He stepped into view, wiping his hands on a greasy rag.
Close behind him came his exact opposite in size and stature. A scrawny man about my height with both skin and clothing so loose and accordioned the he appeared to have been pressed between two heavy encyclopedias until his bodily fluids had evaporated. Blue-tinted eyeglasses perched on his sloping nose, and his wiry gray hair was frizzled into the eccentric-professor-light-socket style—probably not intentionally, I judged.
“So you’re Skip’s old lady,” the husk of a man said in a hoarse whisper. By the stench he emanated, I guessed that nicotine-based carcinogens were responsible for shriveling his voice box until it sounded like a handful of dried peas rattling together.
He didn’t offer to shake hands, which was good, because I was afraid I’d cause him catastrophic injury if I touched him.
His arms were bare to the shoulders, in spite of the winter weather, exposing tattoos so desiccated that I couldn’t tell if the aged blue blob on his bicep was a formerly buxom, naked girl or a pizza in the shape of the state of Florida, heavy on the pepperoni. His skin had the horrible texture and color of Stilton cheese a decade past the expiration date. Otherwise, he was bedecked like his two escorts—in jeans, heavy boots, black leather vest decorated with patches, and Robinson Crusoe follicular growth.
“This here’s my place, so my rules of council,” Gus announced.
“No reason we can’t be civil.” The gaunt man flicked a finger at the two beefcakes, and they started shambling toward the door.
Bruiser Number One—whom I’d poked—growled at me on the way by, but I didn’t flinch. From his immediate obedience to Butch’s tiny gesture, I got the impression he was on a very short leash.
After they’d exited to wait in the cold, the man muttered, “Those two galoots haven’t a shred of seaweed between them for brains. The fewer who know about this conference, the better, anyhow.” He clanged open a folding chair and crouched down upon it as though his joints would snap if he moved too quickly. “Butch Mawbry.” His blue-tinted glasses flashed my direction as he hitched a thumb toward his concave chest. “We got things to discuss.”
Gus handed me a matching folding chair, and I took a seat across from Butch. But I kept my mouth shut. Being called to a meeting like this was absolutely outside my realm. Blabbing unnecessarily—and ignorantly—would not be beneficial.
“Sergeant-at-arms, Mongrels, retired,” Butch continued by way of introduction. “I’m here on behalf of my president, Tank Ebersole.”
I nodded—sagely, I hoped—and bit my lips.
“To pave the way, you might say.” Butch kept rattling on. “Highly unusual. And risky—” This time he hitched his thumb toward the door. “Couldn’t make the trip on my own, given my condition, but Tank assigned the two dumbest brutes to ride with me. They couldn’t speculate their way out of a titty bar without a swift kick to the ass.”
Gus grunted. He engulfed his own folding chair beside me, and it squeaked under his virtuous indignation.
“Oh, right. No offense.” Butch sniffed and adjusted his glasses by scrunching his narrow nose. “Given recent developments, my president would like to discuss possible outcomes with you. For posterity, anyhow, health and preservation for all parties.” He pitched forward and peered at me expectantly.
I wasn’t sure what he’d just said. So I blinked and nodded again.
“That settles it.” Butch smacked his skinny thighs and stood. He fished a black, shiny rectangle from his back pocket—it appeared to be the latest in iPhone technology—and hovered over me, thumb poised. “What’s your number?”
I gave him the number for one of my burner cell phones and knew I’d have to ditch it just as soon as one of the Mongrels called it. The last thing I wanted was the FBI tracing the calls—either mine or his—and realizing we were chatting with each other. I’d be considered guilty until proven innocent if that ever occurred.
Butch stepped to the garage door and hauled on the long loop of chain, rolling it up. His strength surprised me—like a tough, stringy old rooster adept at avoiding the housewife’s hatchet. And it suddenly struck me that Butch would mummify before he’d rot. It was not a pretty image.
The two hulks outside whirled around and made brief, furry eyebrow communication with their boss. Then all three swung their legs over the saddles of their massive choppers and wheeled them out of the service bay.
Beanie helmets and goggles were adjusted. Kick start levers were jumped on, and a massive roar ricocheted inside the concrete walls of Gus’s humble establishment.
They pulled out onto the county road in formation, low and mean, without a backward glance but with a surly confidence that they were leaving the good residents of May County quaking in their boots. Three white bulldog faces glowed in the gloom just above red taillights. Their vibrating rumble was audible long after they’d disappeared from view.
That was it? Butch and his escort had ridden over six hundred miles for a two-minute, one-sided conversation? My spike of adrenaline fizzled, and I was left frowning at the empty intersection.
“You fixed his chain?” I asked.
“Bit of a ruse, that.” Gus stuffed the greasy rag in his back pocket. “Which isn’t to say his bike doesn’t need work. Pile of junk. But when he said those two muscle guys didn’t know anything, I think he was right. In spite of his appearance, I wouldn’t underestimate Butch. You saw his one-percenter patch? He’s not kidding.”
They’d all had diamond-shaped one-percenter patches on their vests. Was that like some kind of truth serum? “Could he possibly have said less for all the gibberish?” I asked.
“Punkin, you need to understand something. That was the opening to negotiations. And you just agreed.” Gus wrapped an arm around my shoulders and snugged me to his side.
His Santa Claus beard tickled my cheek as he spoke. “You’re going to need a spokesperson too—someone to handle your interests. Bargaining between outlaw motorcycle clubs involves either knives and brass knuckles, and sometimes guns and explosives, or pussyfooted gerrymandering that would make the Grand Old Party proud. I’d offer, but I think you need someone more experienced. Can you ask that Josh fellow—Skip’s friend who was fired from the FBI? His rogue reputation would give him some credence with the gang.”
I was having trouble taking it all in. I’d agreed to what? I squinted up at Gus, confusion probably written all over my face.
But he gazed back down at me, unperturbed. He certainly had a stouter constitution than I did, and he’d been entertaining those freaks all afternoon.
“Which Numero are you working on now?” Gus asked. He knew all about the problems I’d inherited by marriage.
“Ebersole is Ocho.” Clearly, though, I hadn’t been the one to take the initiative in this case.
“Let me give you my read on it.” Gus settled back onto his folding chair.
I grabbed my chair and scooted it so our knees were almost touching. And then I held my breath.
“They could’ve found you and eliminated you, but that wouldn’t get their money back.” Gus drummed his fingers on his leg.
I nodded. This was a common theme among my Numeros. I’d been blithely smart to drain the money laundering funds out of Skip’s accounts and pass it on to charities, out of reach of the original owners. It had been an unintentional life-preservation technique, due entirely to ignorance.
“Now Ebersole wants to talk to you, and I can only think of two reasons for that. He’s either hoping you can help him avoid prosecution by the FBI or he thinks he can pressure you in some way to return the money without the FBI finding out.”
Both of which were utterly impossible for me to do. Ebersole was going to be disappointed. And then he might kill me out of frustration or revenge.
“Except,” Gus held up a finger to draw my attention, “Ebersole wants this done privately. Notice he sent a retired member as his spokesperson? That gives me one more idea. He might be acting on his own, separate from the club, without the club’s sanction. Which means he might be afraid—either of a traitorous underling or of a rebellious contingent among the ranks or of something else.”
Gus leaned forward. “You can play this, punkin. I know motorcycle gangs have fearsome reputations, but they’re comprised of humans. Granted, they live with a degree of violence and bravado most ordinary people can’t imagine, but that’s also paired with an extreme paranoia. The higher a guy gets in the ranks, the more insecure he is because the risk of being toppled is increased exponentially. And toppling in their world equals death. It takes a lot of finessing or else legitimate ill-health—like our friend Butch—to effect a true retirement from the gang. Ebersole? It seems to me that he’s very worried about something. Your ticket will be to find out what it is.”