Bait & Switch (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 2

  A be-tasseled customs official banged his stamp on my passport and handed it back with a brilliant smile.

  An air steward in a set of dress whites that would make the preppy tennis set proud wrangled my luggage onto a cart, leaving me free to climb the rolling stairs into the gleaming Learjet. I felt no need to wave goodbye to the FBI agent in his broad stance on the far side of the chain link fence. A stiff ocean breeze called his bluff, whipping his pant legs against his skinny calves.

  I sank into a smooth leather recliner and closed my eyes. I’d have a few hours of anonymous oblivion in this quiet, cool cabin. And I needed a plan before the wheels touched down again.

  CHAPTER 3

  Actually, I needed two plans. One based on the FBI being right and another based on my being right — right about Skip.

  The only thing I agreed with Agent Jordan about is that my presence in Cozumel would be counterproductive. If anyone can find a missing man, it’s the FBI. I, as a distraught, half-crazy, brand-new wife wouldn’t be able to do much except weep in the visitor’s chairs of various local law enforcement officials and make impassioned pleas on television.

  I had neither the money nor clout to prod anyone into faster action regarding Skip’s disappearance. Agent Jordan had hinted that I should make myself available for receiving a ransom request.

  If Skip was alive, he could direct his kidnappers where to find me. But I wasn’t keen to be in the public eye. And I figured we both needed his business to go on as usual which meant not blathering our problems all over the place.

  The first issue to tackle was the legitimacy of the FBI’s claims — money laundering. As soon as we were at cruising elevation, I grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and dialed Robbie.

  Voice mail. I left a cryptic message about the company’s financial records, and that Skip was unavailable so Robbie had better talk to me or else.

  Then I called Skip’s number two, the vice president and operations manager of Turbo-Tidy Clean, LLC. It was Sunday. Leroy would have to find Robbie and enforce his presence in the office until I got there. I wanted a look at the accounts before the FBI confiscated them.

  “What?” Leroy yelled. “You talked to the FBI?”

  “Isn’t that what law-abiding citizens usually do? My husband’s missing,” I shouted back.

  “I thought you had more sense, Nora.”

  My stomach tightened into a hard knot. “Skip’s been kidnapped — or killed. Did you miss that part?”

  “You need to clam up and lay low. As the spouse, they can’t make you testify. I’ll call you back.” Leroy clicked off.

  I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them, burying my face between the knobby joints. No, no, no, no.

  I’d expected blustering disbelief from Leroy, adamant assertions of Skip’s innocence and despair about his possible condition. This could not be happening.

  All the aspects of Skip’s philanthropic efforts under my control were clean — no question — and the foundation kept a separate office. Maybe there was still some hope. I called the personal number of Clarice, my executive assistant, who just might be at the office on a Sunday, given her workaholic habits.

  “Girl, it’s your honeymoon. I’m going to beat you over the head with a two-by-four if you don’t hang up this second. We aren’t on fire or dying.” Clarice’s scratchy, ex-smoker’s voice crackled in my phone. She now has a permanent Juicy Fruit aura to replace the nicotine.

  I almost dissolved, then the words came in a deluge. I told her everything.

  When I finished, she was quiet too long.

  An air steward poked his head around the partition from the galley. “Sandwich?” he mouthed.

  I shook my head and waited until he disappeared again. “Talk to me,” I whispered into the phone. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m making a to-do list,” Clarice growled. “Take the battery out of Skip’s cell phone.”

  I fumbled in my tote bag. “Done.”

  “But hang onto the phone. It’ll be interesting later to see who’s been trying to contact him.”

  “Do you think he’s guilty?”

  “I’m as shocked as you are — stupefied — but I think we’d better act on that supposition. I’ll call you back in a little bit. Hold tight.” Clarice hung up.

  Was I an idiot? The evidence was pointing to my complete inability to judge a man’s character.

  But Skip and I had been so well suited. Both a little shy, bookish, awkwardly unmarried in our early forties, and he’d made me laugh. We enjoyed the same restaurants, the same dumb movies and doing absolutely nothing on Sunday afternoons.

  Besides, Skip hadn’t minded my appearance. On first glance, most people usually notice something’s not quite right, but they have trouble identifying what disturbs them. In a world where symmetry is the objective measure of beauty, I don’t qualify. I was born with a cleft lip and a cleft palate.

  My parents threw everything they had at fixing me. Eleven surgeries across eighteen years plus headgear and braces as a teenager, and the result is a slightly crooked nose, a tiny scar on my upper lip, a quirky lopsided smile and a history of head colds that always turn straight into ear infections. But I can chew, breathe through my nose and speak clearly, which is pretty good, considering.

  And Skip hadn’t cared one whit. The first man I’d met who really, truly evaluated women — all people, for that matter — from the inside out.

  I groaned. My litany sounded like a cheesy personal ad. But even my mother approved of Skip, although she was so desperate to get me married that her standards might have slipped some. His wealth — even though it came from such a proletarian source as car wash franchises — more than made up for his family’s social deficiencies in her eyes. I was just happy to have finally found a companion I really liked, and who liked me back.

  I slid my wedding ring past my knuckle then let it drop back into place. For better or for worse. In sickness and health. Till death—

  My phone rang. Clarice spewed information. I scrambled to take legible notes.

  “Call me when you get there,” she finished. “I’ll be on the road in an hour.”

  I unlatched my seatbelt and stumbled up the aisle. The air steward was stretched out on a padded bench at the far end of the galley, his ankles crossed and an open Sudoku booklet covering his face.

  I nudged his leg. “I need to change the destination.”

  oOo

  Rain. Gray streaks on the jet’s thick Plexiglas windows. I shivered. It was like waking up in a different world. I rubbed my dry, stinging eyes as the terminal slid by outside.

  PDX — Portland International Airport. The fringe of civilization, at least compared to the heat and bustle of Cozumel and home in San Francisco.

  Skip and I had planned that I would move into his loft after the honeymoon. My townhouse would be absorbed into his many property holdings. His eyes had lightened when he’d talked about navigating this new world for me. I know it sounds crazy, but his eyes always reminded me of butter rum Life Savers — a warm, golden brown. We’d be the intrepid pair.

  No matter what he may or may not have done, I missed him. He’d been a reassuring presence, the same steady routine, the person I was always going to come home to. Until now.

  I hoped he wasn’t suffering. Would they kill him fast? Was he already dead? Had he planned his own abduction?

  The plane lurched to a stop, and the fans and motors that had been white noise powered down. My ears popped when the steward opened the latch on the door.

  “Do you have a jacket in easy reach in your luggage?” he asked.

  “Probably,” I mumbled.

  “Take this.” He handed me a blue windbreaker with the charter company’s logo discretely printed on the chest pocket. “We hope to see you again soon.”

  I shrugged my arms into the sleeves and pulled the hood up. “Thanks.” I clattered down the stairs and trotted toward the covered breezeway where my lug
gage waited piled on a cart.

  Clarice had reserved a Chevy Tahoe for me at the Hertz desk. How much luggage did she think I had? I tossed the suitcases in the back, getting drenched in the process.

  I hopped into the driver’s seat and set the heater to full blast. I poked buttons until I had the windshield wipers going and the GPS system speaking in an annoying female monotone. I tapped in the address Clarice had given me.

  I-205 north, across the Glenn L. Jackson Memorial Bridge into the Evergreen State. I’d never been to Washington before.

  CHAPTER 4

  The GPS woman kept insisting I turn where there wasn’t a driveway. The checkered flag destination marker on the screen hovered in a blank area I assumed to be the solid acres of towering fir trees to my left. They looked exactly like the forest crowding in on my right. After my fourth three-point turn on the narrow two-lane road — no risk of oncoming traffic out here — I pulled onto the gravel shoulder and punched the mute button. The way things were going, I’d be sleeping in the vehicle tonight. Maybe having a Tahoe would come in handy after all.

  My phone rang — a restricted number.

  My heart lurched. Maybe it was Skip’s kidnappers with a ransom demand. “Hello?” My hand was shaking so much I could hardly hold the phone to my ear.

  Heavy breathing, and it wasn’t mine.

  “Just let me talk to him,” I begged. “Whatever you want, I’ll get it for you.”

  “Nora? It’s Robbie.” His voice was froggy. He’s a smart kid, but he always looked as though he’d slept in his clothes. How does someone endure the rigors of Stanford summa cum laude and still maintain the pudginess and innocent, geeky sweetness of a barely pubescent boy?

  “Where are you?”

  “I — um — I can’t say.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Has the FBI been in to the office yet?”

  “They don’t need to.”

  “Robbie.” I tried to keep my tone level and measured even though I wanted to scream at him. “This is very important. Skip’s in danger. His life depends upon it. I need you to go into the office and secure the company’s financial records. I need—”

  “It’s too late. I know, all right?” Robbie burst in. “I’ve been feeding them information. I’ve been talking to them for almost a year now. I’m really sorry, all right? But they had some — well, some information — about me — I can’t—” He panted into the phone. “I just found out about Skip. I can’t believe it. They never said there’d be a physical threat. Never. I gotta go. I’m sorry, Nora.”

  “Wait!” I yelled. “Who? Who have you been talking to?”

  “Everyone. All the clients, of course, then the FBI. They promised.”

  I had a stranglehold on the steering wheel. “What did they promise?”

  But Robbie was gone.

  Slowly, the rain’s drumming on the roof replaced the pounding in my ears. The headlight beams illuminated water droplets like sparkles — the rapid shimmy of wet tinsel. I pitched forward and rested my head on the airbag cover.

  I couldn’t even think. Where my ideas should be — the rush of problems and solutions that ought to be matching up with each other — was dark, a deep void. Nothing. Nothing.

  I jolted upright at a knuckle rapping on my window. The wavy shadow of a person appeared through the rain-rippled glass. I pressed the button to lower the window a few inches.

  “Mrs. Sheldon?” Water dripped off the tip of his nose.

  How was it that lately strange men knew my name?

  “Someone named Clarice called and said I should be out looking for you.”

  “God bless that woman,” I muttered.

  “I don’t think He’d approve of the language she uses.”

  I grinned. “Probably not.”

  “If you’ll turn around and follow me, I’ll show you up to the main house.”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal. And thanks.”

  He hunkered back into the collar of his jacket and stumped through the puddles to his truck.

  I stuck close to his taillights. He pulled off the road into an indentation in the shrubbery, a spot just wide enough for his truck between two trees. He sat idling for a minute then his pickup lurched forward, and I saw what we’d been waiting for — a motorized gate, nearly overgrown with ivy. The rain had parted gaps in the leaves, revealing glimpses of a cast iron structure underneath. No keypad, so it must have a motion sensor. The only way I’d have ever found it was by whacking the bushes with a stick along this stretch of empty county road. Good grief.

  Clarice’s reason for the Chevy Tahoe became apparent the first time my head hit the roof even though I still had my seatbelt buckled. There was a horrible, grating crunch as an axle dug a trough through what felt like a sandbar littered with fist-sized rocks. I punched the 4-Lo button, and the engine ground lower, into a deep slogging sound. I was going to have nice purple bruises across my hips and left shoulder in the morning.

  Fortunately, my chaperon seemed to think a leisurely pace was a good idea. I followed his lead, gunning and braking over a track that would surely qualify for those crazy off-road motorcycle races on ESPN — the ones I skip over on my way to more interesting shows. I should have been paying attention.

  Then the truck in front of me went vertical, and I got a really good look at his rusty tailgate. The pickup bucked, flung mud onto my windshield from its rear wheels, then roared up and over what I now realized was the side of a gully — a gully I was still in. Oh boy.

  I sucked a deep breath, clenched my teeth and punched the accelerator. My stomach flipped a few loops when terra firma disappeared from view. That’s when I scrunched my eyes closed, forgot to keep my jaw closed, bit my tongue, and landed upright, bouncing hard on the Tahoe’s shocks but clear of the gully.

  After that it was just big rocks and crater-sized potholes — in other words, clear sailing. And the clouds decided to open up in earnest, proving the earlier downpour just a warm-up session. The windshield wipers were useless.

  The pickup’s taillights doubled bright as the driver hit the brakes. I did the same. A minute later, my door was wrenched open.

  “Not likely to let up,” he huffed. “Leave what you don’t need for later. Ready?”

  I grabbed my purse and slid off the seat. My sandals were no match for the tangled, sopping, calf-high grass. I stumbled after my rescuer, trying to yank the windbreaker hood up at the same time.

  He pulled open a wood door, its peeling paint curling up in long strips. We tumbled into a dingy, echoing room with scuffed linoleum tiles in alternating turquoise and beige.

  He pulled his hat off and slapped it against his leg, releasing an arc of water droplets. “You can shelter here for now. I brought you some dinner.” He jerked a thumb toward a massive table in the center of the room, on which sat a plate covered with aluminum foil. “I’ll be back later to help unload and show you around. Don’t like to leave the boys when it’s storming like this.” He set a hand on the door’s crash bar.

  “Wait,” I blurted. “Your name?”

  “Walt. Walt Neftali. Caretaker, of sorts. Mostly I run the boys’ camp and try to keep vagrants and squatters from destroying what’s left of the property.”

  “This is the main house?”

  He nodded. “Kitchen. There’s more—” He gestured toward the dark end of the room, away from the windows. “But the electrical wiring is ancient and currently on the fritz, so you’d need a flashlight. Sorry about no heat. If I’d known you were coming—” His forehead wrinkled into horizontal ridges. “Well, I don’t know what I’d have done different. Been so long since any of the chimneys have been cleaned that the place would probably burn down if I started a fire. Place is about to fall down as it is. But—” He shrugged. “Welcome.”

  “Thank you.” It came out like a whimper.

  Walt nodded once more, tugged the knit hat back on his head, and left me alone.

  oOo

  The rain continued through the
night, and Walt did not return. Not that I expected him to. I’m a grown woman, and I can take care of myself.

  Besides it sounded as though Walt had his hands full with a group of boys. No matter their number or ages, I’d definitely be out of my league dealing a bunch of bored, cooped-up boys. While Walt seemed like a capable man, I wasn’t going to begrudge him the time he needed to care for his charges.

  Dinner turned out to be two ham slices, a spoonful of baked beans, a mound of coleslaw and a pineapple ring. I devoured it so fast I didn’t even taste it.

  The cell phone signal waffled between half and one bar, but I was able to leave a short message for Clarice.

  When it became clear I’d need to make the kitchen into my sleeping quarters for the night, I cinched up the windbreaker, dashed out to the Tahoe, grabbed the first two suitcases my hands landed on and trudged them back to the dim kitchen. Thunder rippled overhead, ending in an earsplitting crack as another flash of lightning took the first one’s place.

  Squinting through the gloom and working more by feel than sight, I unzipped the suitcases, pulled out anything soft, and formed a nest on the tabletop. With the house empty and neglected for as long as Walt had hinted at, there was a possibility rats or other undesirable creatures might become my bunkmates. There was no way I was going to stretch out on the floor, and I was trying really hard not to think about those animals having the kind of feet and toes that enabled them to climb table legs fast and silently.

  I fell asleep curled around a pile of Skip’s soft t-shirts.

  CHAPTER 5

  A blaring horn tore through my subconscious. I sat up fast, clutched the edge of the wobbly table and squeezed my eyes shut against the sunlight streaming through the dirty windows. I groaned and took another quick peek. Nothing had changed since last night.