Up To No Good: Book 4 Georgie B. Goode Gypsy Caravan Cozy Mystery (3 page)

A gypsy fortune-teller whose crystal ball was malfunctioning. What a joke.

Three days later, Georgie was making tea in Rosa’s compact little kitchen and was already, after ten minutes, wishing she were anywhere else. The moment she arrived, her great-grandmother had launched into an indignant account of how people were treating her like a baby and she didn’t need mollycoddling and they just didn’t breed people tough any more. Over in her easy chair by the window, with her sprained ankle up on an ottoman, she was still venting. Her unfortunate day nurse, overwhelmingly grateful to be told to go and take an hour off away from Rosa’s interminable grumbles, had just scurried out of the door.

“As though I need a nurse,” Rosa griped. “A
nurse.
Waste of good money. Your father knows I’m capable of looking after myself.”

“Of course you are,” Georgie agreed, carrying in a tray with two teapots and cups and the carrot cake that Rosa favored. “When you don’t have a sprained ankle. But right now you need a bit of help. Remember what the doctor said: the last thing you need is to fall and break a hip.”

Rosa wasn’t feeling receptive to common sense. She waved that away with a disgusted ‘Pah!” and accepted a cup of tea. “Did you warm the pot first? And let it steep?”

“Yes, I know you like it strong.” Georgie put a plate with a slice of cake on the side table next to Rosa, and picked up the second teapot and poured her own tea, inhaling the delicate fragrance of Earl Grey.

Rosa eyed the second teapot with disfavor. “When did you start drinking that perfumed muck?”

“Layla converted me.” Georgie grinned. “You haven’t met Layla yet. She’s on our road team for retro trailers.” She sat in the chair opposite Rosa and sipped, closing her eyes in appreciation. “Lovely. How’s yours?”

Rosa tried hers. “It’s good enough, I suppose.”

“You must be pretty bored, sitting here all day. Dad tells me you’re supposed to be still confined to bed. I can imagine how well that suggestion went down.”

“I don’t know why I can’t go to the RV yard. At least there’s always something happening there.”

“There are trucks and RVs moving around all the time; while you’re indisposed, you can’t get out of the way quickly.”

“I could sit in the showroom, or the waiting room.”

There was no way Georgie was going to win this one. Rosa was grumpy and still suffering some pain, and she was going to let the world know it.

Time to change the subject.

“The crystal ball,” she said. “It’s not working for me.”

“I was wondering when we’d get to that.”

Georgie put her head on the side and sent Rosa a quizzical glance. “You already knew?”

“Not for sure, but it’s been harder for me to get through and know what you’re up to.” Rosa shrugged. “It was always going to happen.”

Georgie felt her shoulders relax as a surge of relief swept through her. “So it’s not just me? It happened to you too?”

“Happens to pretty much anyone who uses a crystal ball,” Rosa said. “Sometimes I sit back and picture the Gods sitting up there in the clouds somewhere, having a great old laugh at our expense. Lying around and eating grapes and drinking mead and talking about how humans always expect to have their questions answered.” Without thinking, she went to move her foot away from the ottoman, then winced and wriggled in discomfort. “Damned ankle. We don’t appreciate being mobile until we’re not.”

Georgie sat forward. “Can I get you another cushion for your leg?”

“No, then it’s too high. Don’t worry about it,” Rosa snapped. She was silent for a moment and then said abruptly, “Sorry. I’m a pain in the rear end, I know.”

In a flash Georgie went from being irritated by her to feeling guilty. She could only imagine what it must be like to be ninety-three—or was it ninety-four?—and confined to a chair with a sprained ankle. Difficult at any age, but much harder when you were older.

“Don’t give it a thought,” she said. “I don’t like having to sit still for long myself. Which makes things difficult when I’m spending a good chunk of each morning sitting at a table with a crystal ball.”

“Word is that you’re not charging for a reading?” Rosa watched her, sipping slowly at her tea.

“That’s right. If they don’t pay, they can’t criticize.”

Then she and Rosa both said at the same time, “But they still do,” and both laughed.

“I don’t need the money,” Georgie pointed out. “Not with my commissions, and with Dad’s business I’m set for the future. I just put out the sign so anyone who needs me can find me.”

Rosa’s eyes were keen as she studied Georgie’s face. “And how’s that working out? People finding you?”

Georgie gave her a quick overview of the kind of people who came to her, as well as a run-through of the three cases she had solved so far. Her account of Nick, the teenager with the spy video pen who was determined to hand her over to the cops, saw Rosa’s leathery wrinkled face break out in a broad grin. “I remember that kid,” she said. “Passed on a message for him, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did,” Georgie said with some asperity, remembering that day with the crystal ball when Rosa’s voice had sounded in her ear. “You told me that his mother wanted him to feed his dog. That was
really
useful in solving the case.”

Rosa winked. “Got to let you do your own thing.”

Thinking about the crystal ball brought Georgie back to the main purpose of her visit. “Anyway, back to the crystal ball. How long will I have to wait until it…readjusts itself, or whatever it has to do? The thing is…” She hesitated, not sure of whether she should be worrying Rosa.

“Go on,” her great-grandmother commanded. “Spit it out.”

“I think Tammy is headed for trouble,” Georgie said in a rush. “And Jerry, too—but I’m not so concerned about him; he can look after himself.” She set her cup down, and leaned forward, her hands linked on her lap while she stared at Rosa. “Something’s going to happen, Grandma Rosa, and right now I can’t see what it is. I haven’t even warned them yet, because I don’t know what to tell them. I
need
the crystal ball working again. Unless—” She bit her lip. “Unless you could try?”

Rosa had gone very still. “You say you see something coming?”

“Kind of. I can’t
see
anything. But I
know
it. I do. I just don’t know what.”

Rosa stared down at the cup, and said quietly, “I haven’t felt a thing. Nothing.”

“Well, you’ve been sick. You were knocked out for a few minutes, Dad said, and you’ve had headaches.”

“Doesn’t matter. The Sight gets past all that.” Rosa suddenly looked shrunken and old. “I thought I’d have it until death.”

“Do you want to try the crystal ball?”

“No, not if it’s not working for you.” She drained the rest of her tea, and stared into the cup. Her eyes narrowed, and she lost focus, as though she was staring right through the cup to the floor and down to the center of the earth. Then she tilted the cup and turned it around a few times, before glancing up at Georgie. “Come here.”

“I’d forgotten that you read tea leaves as well as the crystal ball. And cards.” Georgie leapt to her feet and went across to look over Rosa’s shoulder. The tea leaves clumped in a few places, and she saw something that might have been a horse’s head, or maybe a bucket?

She sighed. “Means nothing to me.”

“That’s because you’re trying to make them into any symbols that make sense to you. Just stare at them, and let your mind go blank.”

“It’s been blank for days,” Georgie muttered unhappily, but did as Rosa asked. She stared until the tea leaves blurred together, and then, crazily, began to take on some meaning.

Leaves. Not tea leaves, but leaves, generally, thick and clustered. Branches, trees.

A forest?

Yes, a forest. Some wilderness area.

She blinked, and the tea leaves came back into focus again, but somehow she could see that yes, that odd clump there somehow meant…out in the wild.

“A forest,” she said. “Wait.” She did the same thing again, and from the blur came an impression of shadowy figures. It was so strange: she couldn’t actually picture them, but she
could
sense what was going on. The
meaning
came through.

“People, in the forest.” As she said it, pain lanced into her forehead. “Ow.”

Rosa’s free hand reached back and clamped on her forearm. “You feel pain?”

“A sudden headache.”

“Not anywhere else? Chest, legs, anywhere?”

“No. Why?”

“Sometimes, it can mean an injury in a particular part of the body. A headache is usually just tied to the difficulty of getting a message. Was for me, anyway.”

The pain abruptly lessened and became a dull ache, and Georgie sighed with relief. “What about you? Are you getting anything?”

“No.” The desolation in Rosa’s voice was heart-breaking. “Not a thing.”

So it’s down to me, Georgie thought. I’m right, though: something’s going to happen to Tammy, or Jerry, or both.

Once more, she tried opening her mind to the meaning hidden in the tea leaves, but the more she tried to concentrate, the more her headache throbbed.

“I can’t do any more.” Reaching down to take the cup from Rosa, she saw her great-grandmother’s hand trembling. She squeezed the old woman’s shoulder, and returned to her own chair, seeing her own fear reflected in Rosa’s eyes.

“What should we do?” she asked.

“Tell them what you’ve seen,” said Rosa. “Do it now. Danger in a forested area, from unknown people. It’s better than nothing.”

Georgie swallowed hard and told her: “Jerry was going to get Tammy to talk to his Preppers. Something about guns.”

“Oh my Lord. Go. Go now.”

“But your nurse…”

“I won’t move until she gets back. Go on, don’t dilly dally!”

Georgie gave her great-grandmother a hug and a kiss, snatched up her bag with the useless crystal ball, and left, her heart thumping erratically.

Earlier that morning, bumping his way along a corrugated track in northern Kentucky, Jerry had been feeling particularly happy and pleased with the world. As he drove he whistled a prepper’s song that one of his cashed-up survivalist customers had taught him. The words were set to the tune of John Denver’s “Thank God I’m a Country Boy”, which was nice and easy to remember. The re-vamped chorus had nothing about country boys, but ran along the lines of ‘thank God I’m a prepper now’, while the rest of the song had bits and pieces about a world under attack and putting the pedal to the metal. It kind of appealed to Jerry. Every so often he broke off whistling to sing the parts that he could remember, while occasionally glancing at the GPS.

They’d be waiting for him about twenty miles from the turnoff, Vincent had told him, and he’d done nigh on eighteen miles now, so he’d have to be getting close.

The truck crashed down into another pothole, which didn’t faze him in the slightest. He was in the Jerry B. Goode BugOut Barbarian—“Barbie” for short—the best prepper vehicle they’d produced yet, and Vincent was about to put it through its paces and then order his own if he was satisfied.

Like there was anyone who tried it who
wasn’t
satisfied. You couldn’t stop this baby.

Hello, quarter of a million dollars!

Jerry took his hand off the wheel for a moment to reached over and pat himself on the back, and then rounded a bend to find a lean, fit boss-man type and another huge guy who must be the hired gorilla waiting by the side of the road, leaning on a 4WD. It was parked next to the entry point of an overgrown track.

Jerry slowed, and stuck his head out of the window. “You’d be Vincent?”

“I would.” The guy moved his lips in a movement that might have been a smile, and moved forward to pat the rugged side of BugOut Barbie. “Lookin’ good there, Jer. Can’t wait to try this one out.” He moved closer, his face wary and his dark eyes sharp. “You sure nobody followed you here?”

“Absolutely certain,” Jerry assured him. Man, these guys were paranoid. Always afraid that someone was going to find out about their bug-out vehicles and burrows in the ground—or a fortress on some hill with its back to a rugged rock wall.

“You didn’t put the coordinates on a computer where people can find them, nothin’ like that?”

“The only coordinates are in here,” Jerry assured him, tapping on the GPS screen. He grinned. “I ate the piece of paper I jotted them down on.”

Vincent looked at him without smiling. “You can laugh, but when things go to hell you’ll be knocking on my door like everyone else.”

“I know, I know. Just having a bit of fun with you, man.” Jerry reached out and knocked knuckles with him. “We take security seriously at the RV Empire.”

“Hackers can get in anywhere.”

“Your details are not on our computers, right? Not on my phone, not written down anywhere. Nobody’s going to find you. Nobody that you don’t want to, anyway.”

“Okay.” Vincent unbent a little. “Follow us, then.”

Jerry watched him swing into his truck with the other guy—who looked just as suspicious— and rolled his eyes.

Quarter of a million, he reminded himself. It wasn’t money anyone would invest lightly. You had to expect a bit of paranoia from guys who were willing to spend this kind of money.

He put Barbie into gear and swung in past a couple of scraggy bushes to follow them.

He couldn’t wait to see their bunker.

~~~

Back at the vintage trailer division of the RV Empire, Tammy stood back and surveyed the newest retro-style trailer. For two guys who basically didn’t give a rat’s about vintage, Jerry and his dad had nailed their customer base. They’d picked four basic shapes—one modeled on the Airstream, another on the Shasta, and a couple of others in between—and offered a range of embellishments to give any mock-vintage trailer the exact look the customer wanted. Any color, any decals, rounded windows, square windows…it was all there for the asking.

The new trailer was pink and white, shaped like a lozenge, and looked good enough to eat. Inside were ruffled curtains with a polka dot trim and delicate china cups in fairy floss pink and pale green. Totally irresistible. Tammy nodded in satisfaction, tweaked the polka dot cloth on the round table outside it, and thought about whether a hint of jet black here and there might add some vibrancy to the mood.