Grab & Go (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 2) Page 5

  “Grading?” I asked.

  “Creative writing assignments — poetry, short story fiction, some crazy sci-fi stuff.” Walt shook his head. “For some of these kids, the alternate universe they create in their heads is far better than the real one they came from. I don’t blame them.”

  “I haven’t forgotten your suggestion that I be the judge and jury this time around,” I said.

  Walt’s brows arched over his pale blue eyes. I’ve decided they’re the color of a winter sky — or a glacier. “You have a lot on your mind right now.”

  “Which means I could use a diversion.” I held out my hands, and Walt shoved the composition books across the desk to me. “But I need a favor,” I added.

  Walt frowned. He’s heard those words from me before.

  “Can CeCe stay here with you and the boys tonight? She has her heart set on sleeping in a bona fide bunk bed.”

  Walt snorted a soft chuckle. “I presume Eli hatched the idea?” He ran a hand through his hair which was growing out from the close cut I’d given him a few weeks ago. “Sure. She’ll have eighteen more boys wrapped around her little princess finger before the evening’s over.”

  “It’ll be good for them.” I grinned.

  “Is she sleeping through the night?” Walt’s tone went even lower.

  I nodded. “We haven’t told her exactly what happened. She just knows that her daddy’s sick, but that he’s getting better at the hospital. She’s a trouper.”

  Walt slouched in his chair until his head was level with mine and steepled his fingers in front of his chin, his probing eyes fixed on me. “What about you?”

  I don’t enjoy being on the receiving end of Walt’s therapy questions. I scrunched my face. “Sleeping? It’s only been one day.”

  His eyes didn’t flicker. “Since the shooting. But it’s been, what — twenty, twenty-one days since your kidnapping?”

  “Catnaps,” I tried.

  Walt has this way of waiting until you answer the question he really asked, not the question you want to answer. It’s highly irritating.

  I sighed. “Not yet.” Then I straightened. “Do you have a map of the Mayfield property?” Ahh, a diversion.

  Walt got a new crease between his brows, but he swiveled to the bookcase behind him and started flipping through file folders stuffed on edge into the shelves. After a few minutes, he whirled back around and unfolded a large paper on the desk.

  “From 1964. The nursing home director had plans for expansion and ran through some zoning stuff with the county, but then the company decided it would be too expensive and shut the place down instead.” Walt smoothed the map with his fingertips. “Things haven’t changed much, except a couple of these buildings, like the dairy barn, aren’t standing anymore.”

  “This is the property line we share with the Gonzales family?” I asked, pointing to the south. We’re neighbors, but I’d hate to be the one to count the acres of densely timbered land between our respective residences. No roads crossed the area in 1964.

  “Yeah. They have the only less-than-an-acre residential developed plot. The rest of the land around them is protected BLM old-growth forest.”

  I needed a trail. But if I asked Walt, he’d want to know why. Instead, I let my finger and my gaze drift west into a large portion of the Mayfield property I hadn’t explored yet. “I’ve seen the mountains — St. Helens, Adams and Rainier. Dill showed me from the top floor of the mansion. Are there other viewpoints out here?”

  Walt grabbed a pencil and circled two spots. “They’re a climb. If you go, I’ll go with you, or a couple of the older boys. With the overnight temps, you don’t want to get stuck out there.”

  I smiled into his worried eyes. “Maybe in the spring. Just planning ahead. Okay if I borrow this?”

  Walt’s lips flattened, just a little, but enough. He knew I wasn’t telling the whole truth. “Nora—” he murmured. “It’s Hank, isn’t it? What’s going on — besides a couple disgruntled former employees?”

  “Des talked to you?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.

  “And Etherea. And Bob. And Gus.” Walt tipped his head, a tiny smile rippling across his face. Right — the neighborhood information relay. Operational at speeds faster than light.

  I sucked in a deep breath. “Skip is what’s going on. Hank had — has — some suspicions. I need to—” I held up my hand at the warning look on Walt’s face, “check them out. You won’t be able to persuade me not to, so let’s not go there.” I rested a hand on his arm. “I’m the one with the best shot at this, better than Des, even. Because I knew Skip. I lived in his orbit for several years. The passwords—” I bit my lip. There were some things Walt didn’t know about what I’d found in my husband’s bank accounts and what I’d done with the money. “Well, I think Skip means for me to be the one investigating.”

  “He might well be dead, Nora,” Walt whispered. “You know that, right? I don’t mean to be harsh, but are you sure the risk you’re taking is worth it?”

  I nodded. “Because it’s bigger than just him. Lots bigger.”

  CHAPTER 7

  If there was one person on the property who could help me with something illegal and not bat an eyelash of conscience, it was Dwayne Cotton. Dwayne makes moonshine for a living. Not a great living, but I guessed he was at least in his eighties, so his occupation had provided sufficiently for the meager essentials he required.

  He was an undocumented tenant of the poor farm with an undeclared but mutually understood non-interference pact with Walt. They waffled between looking out for each other and ignoring each other as needed. Basically, Dwayne was squatting, but had been so long it was like he was grandfathered in.

  Eli, on the other hand, idolized Dwayne, and was in the process of learning heaps of mountain man skills from the old codger. Things like disappearing without a sound, tracking, navigating without a compass, and whittling. Both Walt and I hoped that distilling wasn’t on the educational agenda.

  I detoured off one of the many rutted tire track lanes on the property and headed into the bush, letting my feet land where they may and creating plenty of crackling and stomping advance warning. Dwayne has a rusty old shotgun and isn’t afraid to brandish it about. To the best of my knowledge, he’s never actually fired it, but if he did, the results on both ends could be disastrous.

  I approached his hut and yoohooed.

  “I hear ya,” a firm voice called from inside.

  Dwayne stepped onto his porch — wood pallet slats sunk in the mud with a partially supported overhang. I say partially because one of the posts tilted to a degree that belied physics. But the whole thing was flimsy enough that it probably wouldn’t cause much more than a concussion if it collapsed on Dwayne’s head. Just the same, I preferred to stand out in the open.

  Dwayne was wiping his hands on a filthy apron tied around his waist. With his long, scraggly white beard and gnarled fingers, he could have been an old-timey blacksmith or cobbler. Since none of his clothing was worth preserving and already well past universal standards of cleanliness, I wasn’t sure what the point of the apron was.

  “Afternoon.” Dwayne nodded. “Heard you were in a bit of trouble yesterday.”

  I deflated. Posting my itinerary on a billboard wouldn’t tell my neighbors anything they didn’t already know. “Can you help me?” I pulled the property map from inside my jacket.

  “Depends.” Dwayne sidled up to me and peered at the map.

  “I need to know how to get over here—” I pointed to the Gonzales’s plot, “without driving and without going out on the county road.”

  “Ahh.” Dwayne’s bushy brows lowered. “This have anything to do with the serious folks surveilling out front?”

  I bit my lip and realized for the first time that my FBI watchers must have put a damper on Dwayne’s movements as well. He’s not terribly keen to encounter law enforcement officers, for obvious reasons. Yet another way I was a burden to my friends.

>   “Come on in.” Dwayne stumped into his cabin, ducking his head to fit through the low doorway.

  I spent as little time under the porch overhang as possible and darted through the opening after him. Dwayne spread the map on a table in front of his homemade wood stove and pulled up a three-legged campstool for me.

  A pencil stub materialized from somewhere — a shirt pocket? behind his ear? — and Dwayne deftly stroked dashed lines, X’s and O’s on the map. Then he explained his simple legend and the pros and cons of each trail, where they merged and diverged and how long I could expect each one to take, provided I was a proficient hiker.

  Then he brought up a subject I hadn’t considered. “Time of day? It’ll be the new moon and overcast the next few days.”

  Meaning it would be pitch black after sunset, and the landmarks wouldn’t mean anything if I couldn’t see them. At my blank look, Dwayne stabbed the pencil at one of the trails. “This one, then. It mostly follows a small creek bed down in a holler that should prevent a flashlight beam from casting too far past where you need it.”

  It also happened to be one of the more direct routes. I nodded. “Much obliged. How’ve you been? With this cold snap?” I stretched out a hand toward the faint warmth of the stove.

  Dwayne grinned, revealing a few gaps from missing teeth. “I’m not a tenderfoot like you. Besides, that boy, Bodie, has been around, done some chopping for me. Walt sent him, but he’s cheerful enough about it.”

  “He’s been talking to you?” Hopefulness crept into my tone.

  Dwayne’s bottom lip protruded as he reconsidered. “Wouldn’t call it talking, exactly. Bits here and there, but I get the gist of it. Parents got no right treating their child like that.” A steely glint flashed behind the cataract clouds in Dwayne’s eyes.

  I squeezed his hand. “Thank you. I’ve been hoping he’d come out of his shell.”

  Dwayne nodded and showed me to the door of his shack — the consummate gentleman.

  While my legs launched into the hasty trek back to the mansion, my brain disassociated for a few minutes. It was crazy just how quickly I’d become accustomed to new situations. Not too long ago, I would have been horrified by the idea of moonshining, or laughed, thinking it was a long-dead, boys-will-be-boys hobby stamped out with the end of Prohibition. But here I was consorting with a moonshiner. Of course, I’d yet to see any hard evidence, like equipment in actual use. Even so, Dwayne’s alleged occupation so paled in comparison to the other dilemmas I faced that I considered him an ally.

  It sure helped that he’d saved my life — and Eli’s. That one episode by itself overrode whatever remained of my flimsy conscientious objections.

  oOo

  Clarice would have given General William Tecumseh Sherman a run for his money in the mounting of a major campaign. By the time I entered the steamy kitchen, Clarice had four large pans of pear and cranberry crisp lined up on the big farm table. Two children — dark haired, dark eyed, petite and feminine CeCe and tufty fawn haired, crystal-blue eyed, freckled, new teeth growing in too big for his mouth Eli — knelt on chairs and leaned over the pans, inhaling. I grinned. Clarice’s philosophy on life is, if there’s any question about the outcome, cook in quantity.

  “Huh-uh,” I warned just as Eli’s fingers, ready to pinch, hovered over the corner of the closest pan. “No snitching. You don’t want to see what happens to Clarice when you do that,” I whispered, making a face and wiggling my index fingers over my head like horns. I only took the risk because Clarice was shoulders deep in the refrigerator, her ample behind sticking out for all to see.

  The kids giggled, and Clarice backed out, letting the refrigerator door slap shut behind her, a pound of butter in her hand. She scowled at us.

  “The crisp should keep everyone down at the bunkhouse occupied tonight,” she grunted, giving me a pointed look.

  My eyes widened. “You didn’t — uh, supplement the dessert? That’s not really necessary.”

  Clarice snorted. “Of course not. What do you think this is — the first day of summer camp? They’ll be lying in their bunks moaning from the pleasure of a full belly, not dashing down the hall to — well, for goodness’ sake, girl. Not a bad idea, though.”

  “It’ll be dark in less than an hour,” I said.

  “Don’t I know it.” Clarice glowered at me, then clapped her hands like a command. “All right, sprouts. Get your stuff together. Five minutes.”

  The two kids shot out of their seats and through the doorway to the rest of the mansion, followed by the reverberation of a trundling charge up the steps and down the distant hallway to the back bedroom.

  “Finish rallying the gear,” Clarice huffed, pointing to the jumble of household accessories in the corner.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Clarice bundled the kids, CeCe’s overnight trappings, and the dessert into the station wagon and set off on the jouncing ride to the bunkhouse.

  I stood over the pile of assembled tools and wondered just what Clarice had been thinking. A broomless broomstick, pruning shears, folding stepstool, miscellaneous screwdrivers and pliers, a hammer, paper bags, a box of plastic wrap, a Sharpie pen. I added two flashlights, duct tape, a brick, several dishtowels, a massive pair of rusty kitchen shears and twine. You just never know.

  I hadn’t exactly done this before. My philosophy on life is, if there’s any question about the outcome, overpack. My second philosophy — ever since my husband hadn’t returned from a brief errand while on our honeymoon — is always assume the outcome is in question.

  I packed the smaller tools into one of my rolling suitcases, loosely wrapping the metal instruments in the towels to keep them from clanking together. Then I wheeled out three more suitcases — my other one and two of Skip’s — and lined them up by the door.

  I was dressed in my darkest, quietest clothes by the time Clarice returned, the headlights of the Subaru beaming through the growing gloom.

  “Take the grand tour?” I asked when she finally shuffled into the kitchen.

  “Pretty much,” she grunted. “Had to show me this, had to show me that, schoolwork, maintenance projects, skill development. Those boys are full of it. I will say one thing, though—” she peered at me quite seriously. “Walt has a way with them. Best non-father father figure I’ve ever seen.”

  “Exactly what they need. Besides, being shown around is an honor. It means the boys like you —” I smirked, “or they’re terrified of you.”

  “Let’s keep it that way, shall we? Load up.” Clarice marched out of the room, presumably to also change into her most invisible outfit.

  The Subaru’s liftgate was open, the dome light glowing dimly. I lugged the suitcases out and stashed them in the back, wedging the stepstool in beside them. I draped a dark navy blanket over the whole schmear and closed the hatch with a firm click. Then I plopped into the passenger seat to wait for Clarice.

  For once in her life, Clarice drove slowly, lurching carefully over the final few potholes before the gate. “Getting a good look at us,” she muttered under her breath. Then she pulled sedately onto the county road, heading south.

  Once we reached the Gonzales’s ranch house, we flew into a flurry of activity. Clarice parked close to Hank’s pickup. Gus had taken care of returning it from the general store parking lot after the crime scene was cleared. I yanked up the station wagon’s liftgate, pulled out the suitcases and tossed them into the bed of Hank’s truck while Clarice dashed into the house and turned on lights in almost every room.

  I trotted up the steps and stuck my head in the kitchen. “Ready?” I hissed.

  Clarice emerged from the hallway with an armful of stuffed animals which she shoved at me. “Put these in the car. I’ll get pans out.”

  When I returned to the kitchen, it looked like a tornado had blown all the cupboard doors open. Pots, dish towels, a rolling pin, spice jars, mixing spoons — all over the place. Clarice stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the scene. “It’ll have
to do.”

  “How about the stereo or TV?” I asked.

  Strains of twangy country music — loud, some song about drinking off the effects of a broken love affair — followed Clarice as she stepped back into the room with an evil grin on her face. “Pure torture, that,” she chuckled. “Serves them right if they check in on us.”

  I rolled my eyes at her and grabbed the spare set of truck keys off the little hooked rack beside the door.

  Hank’s pickup was unlocked — of course it was. Who in their right mind would steal an old, beat-up, half rust, rattletrap truck? Gus, like everyone else around here, knew it was safe and hadn’t bothered to lock it.

  Besides, I was only borrowing it.

  I took the turnoff to the freight terminal and killed the headlights. A couple semis with trailers were backed up to loading docks, but all the big garage doors were closed. I didn’t see anyone walking around under the halogen flood lamps that were too widely space to be completely effective in lighting the vast lot.

  I coasted to the office entrance and angled the truck so the tailgate could be dropped open within a few steps of the door. I turned off the engine and took a deep breath.

  “Here we go,” Clarice muttered, unlatching her seatbelt.

  “You can still back out. No hard feelings,” I said.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “This suddenly doesn’t feel like a great idea,” I whispered.

  “Gotta do something. Get off your fanny, girl.” Clarice reached up and switched off the dome light before popping her door open.

  “Guess you could use my help then,” said a newly lower-pitched but supremely confident voice from behind the bench seat.

  CHAPTER 8

  When I started breathing again — what must have been several minutes later — I turned carefully and stared at the silhouette draped over the back of the seat. It was too dark to make out his features clearly, but I’d recognize those budding dreads anywhere.