Bait & Switch (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 8

  “Terms for what?”

  “Helping. I’ve done what I needed to do, now I’ll do what you tell me. I’ll be nice and cooperative.”

  Matt laughed, a deep rumble that started in his stomach.

  That’s when I noticed the dirty sneaker poking out from behind a teepee of mops and brooms in the corner. My heart sank. How much had he heard? I needed to get a padlock for the door.

  “Eli? Come here.”

  First one blue eye, then the other and a tangled mess of fawn-colored hair appeared from behind the cleaning supplies. He scrambled to his feet and walked slowly to me. He pressed against my side, peering at Matt from around my hip.

  I rubbed his back. My silent boy with the big, big eyes. My boy who knew too much.

  Matt’s lips pressed together in a tight line. He stared at me and shook his head, just a tiny side-to-side movement.

  “Stay here,” I squeezed Eli’s shoulder and followed Matt outside for the second time that day.

  “Any reason the news media would be interested in Skip’s disappearance?” Matt asked in a low voice once he’d closed the door behind us.

  “We had a charity ball to attend in mid-December. The San Francisco society columnists are always in attendance. I’ll send my regrets. Other than that, no. Our private lives are hardly newsworthy.”

  “It’s important to keep this as quiet as possible. It’s your best chance of prolonging Skip’s life if he’s — well, you know, of getting a legitimate ransom request.”

  “You don’t have to tiptoe around the idea.” I bit my lip and glanced at the trees towering against the hills, teal and malachite greens and drifting pewter fog. “I know his odds are slim — or zero already.”

  “That means locals, too. Drug cartels, organized gambling, prostitution rings — they have long reaches, people everywhere. You have kids here. Be careful.”

  I closed my eyes against the beauty of what I was seeing in order to focus on the ugliness of what Matt was saying. “You’re always alone. Don’t you have a partner?”

  Matt let out a surprised grunt. “She’s on vacation — in the Bahamas — which was deemed more important than my vacation and therefore not canceled. I was going to do a little fishing, a little reading, a little lazing around, hike some, actually cook breakfast. But, nope. I’m babysitting you.”

  “Can you can make Hollandaise sauce? ‘Cause if you can I’d hire you as chef and open this place as a bed and breakfast.”

  I got what I wanted — another deep belly laugh from Matt. I needed to make amends.

  “In your dreams, Nora.” But he was grinning as he climbed into his car.

  oOo

  I lectured Eli about eavesdropping, but not too vigorously. I didn’t know what horrible things he’d already endured — what kind of neglect or trauma had resulted in his residence in a boys’ camp at such a tender age. Those eyes — they took everything in but revealed so little, like a bottomless soul. I hugged him and thanked him for the bird whistle. He flushed a little, embarrassed but pleased, and I sent him on his way.

  Clarice and I made our afternoon productive by finding Woodland and checking a whole load of housekeeping tasks off our to-do lists. We drove separately, and I returned the Tahoe to the Hertz satellite office where Clarice picked me up. We both hit our ATM daily maximum withdrawal numbers and then we went shopping. I put everything possible on my credit card since cash was going to become a precious commodity.

  I figured Skip’s money laundering clients would find me the same way the FBI did, so using my credit card was a moot point. I did, however, buy several prepaid cell phones and two new mobile hotspot devices with cash. I had to keep my cell phone on and with me, hoping for a ransom call, but I wasn’t going to conduct business with it.

  In spite of my newfound spirit of cooperation, I needed a safety net and the FBI wasn’t it. My first call on a prepaid phone was to a friend in San Francisco who also happened to be a realtor. I told her where the spare key to my townhouse was hidden and asked her to remove all my personal items which were already boxed up and then put it on the market. I lied through my teeth about the sudden urgency of the decision and made up an obsessive wanderlust Skip and I had acquired. We were thinking about a far-ranging tour through South America before returning home. For all I knew, Skip really was in South America — it could be true.

  At the library, Clarice photocopied every page of Skip’s little journal. I’d have to turn the original over to Matt, but I wanted to attempt deciphering it myself. Then we drove around in Clarice’s station wagon for a while, familiarizing ourselves with the area.

  Mayfield — I liked that the property had a name — was starting to look like home when Clarice backed up near the kitchen door and swung the car’s liftgate open. “We need to replace that bulb.” She pointed to a lantern fixture mounted on the brick wall above the patio.

  A grimy blue plastic shopping bag hung from the doorknob. Thinking it was another gift from Eli, I untied the handles and peered inside.

  I dropped the bag and emitted a gurgling, strangled sound. A glimpse in what remained of the dim afternoon light had been enough to recognize a finger — a human finger — a man’s finger.

  Clarice was beside me in an instant, bending over the bag.

  “Don’t look,” I rasped.

  But it was too late. She snapped upright and stared at me, her face slack and gray underneath the slathered makeup.

  “Oh, Nora.” Her voice wobbled, and she swayed.

  I flung my arms around her and held her tight as she trembled. I walked her into the gloomy kitchen and eased her into a chair. Then I knelt beside her with my hands on her shoulders.

  “I’m alright,” she snapped. “Don’t baby me.”

  I gave her an I-know-better look.

  “Give me a minute.” She removed her glasses and pressed her hands over her eyes. “Is it Skip’s?”

  I patted her knee and returned to the bag. With just my fingertips, I widened the bag’s opening and forced myself to inspect the finger as much as I could without touching it.

  It was not Skip’s — skin too tan, nail cut straight instead of tapered with what appeared to be machine grease caked underneath. The clincher was the hair between the knuckles — black and wiry and plentiful. I guessed the owner of the finger was of Middle Eastern or Latin descent, definitely not Skip’s mélange of northern European heritage. The finger had been separated from the hand, torn more than cut, because the bone wasn’t shattered. The joint reminded me of a chicken drumstick. The blood had clotted, and it wasn’t really that gross, although the Tillamook cheeseburger I’d eaten at the Woodland Burgerville was threatening to make a reappearance.

  I walked to the edge of the patio and slumped against the brick wall, keeping a forearm pressed across my middle. I found Matt’s number which I’d programmed into my phone and hit the connect button.

  “I have a finger,” I said when he answered.

  “You’re giving me the finger?” He didn’t sound amused.

  “No — well, yes. I have one, an extra. It doesn’t belong to anyone I know. I’d like you to come and get it.”

  “Nora?” His tone carried warning, as though the joke was wearing thin.

  “Please?” I whispered.

  I waited a heartbeat — two heartbeats.

  “Twenty minutes.” Matt clicked off.

  I slid to sitting, my back against the wall, and watched the blue plastic bag as dusk descended fast, helped along by heavy, thick clouds. It was going to rain again. Maybe the bag was a figment of my imagination. Maybe it would just up and disappear. Maybe if I closed my eyes it would go away.

  The bag crinkled in the rustling breeze, held in place by the weight within it. I supposed the FBI would be able to tell whether the finger had been removed pre- or post-death. What man had sacrificed, I presumed not willingly, his finger as a message for me?

  CHAPTER 12

  Matt’s face was grim, jaw clenched, as he went
about the correct handling of evidence. He’d shone his car headlights across the patio and was casting an impossibly tall shadow as he inspected every inch of the cracked concrete around the plastic bag. He’d already dusted the door knob and bordering wood doorframe for fingerprints.

  I shivered, hugging my arms across my body, as I sat on the Subaru’s back bumper.

  “Go inside, Nora. I’ll come in when I’m done.”

  “Whose is it?” I didn’t budge.

  “No idea.”

  “Do you think they were watching us and waited until we left to deliver it?”

  “Could be.”

  “Maybe they got the wrong house by accident.”

  He either didn’t hear me or didn’t think the question was worth answering. I didn’t think so either, but I wanted to hope it was all a sick mistake.

  A huge raindrop landed on my thigh and instantly soaked through my jeans. Then another.

  Matt muttered something and dashed to the open trunk of his car. He hurried back with a large brown paper pouch and gingerly slid the plastic bag and its contents inside. “There’s nothing else here. Go on.” He tipped his head toward the kitchen door.

  “Is that young man staying for dinner?” Clarice asked as I shed my windbreaker and hung it over the back of a chair.

  She was stirring a couple bubbling pots on the stove, the ruffly red apron in attendance. The brusqueness of her movements, her tone of voice indicated she was back to her normal self.

  “He’ll stay long enough to take our fingerprints for elimination purposes. What are you cooking?” I moved to peek into the pots. “I think he’s a picky eater.”

  Clarice grunted. “He’s going to find my fingerprints are already on file.”

  My mouth fell open and I blinked a few times. Must have been the steam. “Anything serious?” I finally managed.

  “Disrupting the peace, assaulting a police officer.” She shrugged. “I was a college student in the ‘60s. You could meet cute guys at protests. Sometimes the cute guys were in uniform.”

  “You assaulted a cute policeman?”

  “He made me mad. Had me in handcuffs lying on the sidewalk, so I bit him in the ankle. Only place I could reach.”

  I blinked a few more times. “What were you protesting?”

  “I don’t remember now. It hardly even mattered then. Protesting was fun — beat going to class.” She eyed me with a sly smile. “He asked me out later.”

  I was suddenly exhausted — and completely out of questions. I sank into a chair.

  The phone in my pocket rang, and I fished it out. The caller ID showed Leroy Hardiman, the VP of operations for Turbo-Tidy Clean, who’d promised to call back when I’d asked for explanations earlier. About time.

  “Nora?” His voice was muffled, as though he was speaking into his hand cupped around the phone. “Nora, where are you?” He was also panting. “Did you receive something today?”

  All the bile in my digestive tract felt as if it was about to explode. “Was that you?” I shouted. “You disgusting, cruel—” I ran out of words horrible enough and banged my fist on the table. “Where is he — the man you mutilated?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Not me, Nora. I got one too,” Leroy whispered.

  “Got one what?” I snarled into the phone. Leroy was already on my questionable list. I didn’t want to give away more than I already had.

  “A finger.”

  “What’s it look like?”

  He described a twin to the finger I’d received.

  “Where are you?”

  “My cabin — Big Bear.”

  So the courier had found us both in remote locations. Which also meant the bad guys did not yet know who was responsible for the money going missing. I hated to put Leroy at risk, but I hadn’t known I was, which meant he was involved in some way. “What did you do?” I asked.

  “What do you mean, what did I do?” Leroy switched to shouting. “I threw it in the trash, that’s what I did. Then I washed my hands about ten times.”

  “You didn’t tell the police?” I hunched over the phone with my elbows on my knees.

  It was so silent on the other end of the line I thought he’d hung up. “Well, I just — it could have been a mistake, you know.”

  “It wasn’t a mistake. It’s a message.”

  Leroy whimpered. “I’m leaving. I have to get out of here.” Panic rose in his voice, and there were thumping noises as if he was lugging a suitcase out of a closet, or repeatedly walking into a wall.

  “Did you betray Skip?” I blurted. A shadow passed over, and I glanced up to see I had an audience — both Matt and Clarice wide-eyed and leaning on the kitchen table on either side of my chair. I pushed the speaker button.

  “What? No. No, no, no. I just needed a little more, what with the kids being in college and all, and Josie wanted vacations to someplace warm. I just, you know, collected a commission. Not enough anyone would notice.”

  “The finger says they noticed.”

  “I’m sorry.” Leroy had sunk to whining. “Tell them I’m sorry, Nora. I can pay them back, with interest. I just need a little time—” More thumping and ragged panting.

  “Where’s Skip,” I asked through clenched teeth.

  “I don’t know. How am I supposed to know? That wasn’t supposed to happen. Everything was going smoothly. No complaints, a couple meetings. Mixing business with pleasure, no worries. Something happened. I don’t know. And now they’re after me. I never did anything. I’m not the mastermind—” There was a horrible metallic screeching.

  “Leroy?” I shouted.

  “Garage door’s jammed. I gotta go, Nora. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he whispered and hung up.

  Matt grabbed my phone and pushed buttons to see the caller ID. “Does that answer your question about Skip’s innocence?”

  “No.” I scowled. “How can it? You heard him. Skip’s disappearance wasn’t planned.”

  “And Leroy is a credible source?” Matt snorted.

  Clarice was madly thumbing through her Day-Timer. She pounced on an entry and jotted a note on a scrap paper which she handed to Matt. “The address for Leroy’s cabin. I understand the electricity is from a generator and they have well water. It’s way out.”

  “Check the trash cans for another finger,” I added. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to leave the country, and I’d also be willing to speculate that he won’t go to Mexico because of what happened to us there.”

  Matt made a few terse phone calls. Clarice handed me a stack of plates and silverware to set the table for dinner and returned to the stove.

  We devoured the creamy casserole and green beans. Matt wolfed down three servings, seemingly unperturbed by the Hamburger Helper nature of the dish or by his handling of a dismembered finger earlier.

  When he came up for air and sat rotating his mug of after-meal coffee in slow clockwise circles on the tabletop, he turned to me. “Why are you so set on defending Skip?”

  I choked on the last of my beans. “It might have something to do with the fact that I’m married to him.”

  “But the evidence—”

  “Is inconclusive, at best,” I snapped. “You don’t know him, his kindness. Look at me. Would you call this trophy wife material? Yeah, me neither. Considering Skip’s wealth and reputation, he could have married anyone, and yet he picked me.”

  Matt stared at me for a long minute. “What if he picked you because you’re loyal? Because you know your way around international banking? Because you don’t fold under pressure? Because you have spunk?”

  “You’re saying Skip’s playing me?”

  “He’s conned some of the shiftiest criminals in the business. Maybe he’s conning you too.”

  Clarice nudged my knee under the table.

  I knew what she was asking and nodded. “It’s okay. I want to get to the bottom of this.”

  She retrieved Skip’s journal from her handbag and tossed it to Matt. I explained where I’d
found it while he flipped pages. I couldn’t read his face, but he didn’t seem surprised. He slipped the journal into his shirt pocket and pushed away from the table.

  “You have a gun?” he asked.

  “No.” My face must have registered my disgust.

  “I don’t like leaving you here alone, but I have to get the finger to the lab. Chain of custody — can’t just drop it in a mailbox. I’ll be gone at least twenty-four hours. Block the doors. Check the windows. Keep your phones with you. The local sheriff’s name is Des Forbes. I talked to him yesterday — good man. His people would be the ones responding to a 911 call.”

  Matt rose, grabbed Clarice around the waist and bussed her cheek. “Thanks for dinner.”

  “Well,” she huffed and shoved him away. “Get out of here.” She latched the door behind him and rammed the table against it.

  oOo

  I don’t suppose I slept the sleep of the righteous — more like the dreamless repair mechanism of the utterly exhausted. And it wasn’t enough, not even close, but daylight — I won’t say sunlight because the cloud layer acted as a spectrum filter — streamed through my uncovered window. It had been my first night in a real bed in longer than I had groggy brain cells to count.

  Given the circumstances of last night, I shouldn’t have been able to sleep at all, but absolute necessity trumped squeamishness and worry. Apparently no one had tried to kill us while we were unconscious because syncopated snoring emanated from Clarice’s room across the hall.

  I snuck down to the kitchen and opened a new package of Oreos while coffee brewed. Breakfast of champions, at least when Clarice isn’t around. She must have washed the window over the sink, because a shaft of light backlit my ring lying on the sill and cast rays of sparkle across the ledge.

  I picked up the ring and bobbled it in my palm. It was inordinately heavy for its size, a small but meaningful bond between Skip and me. Matt’s comments from last night rattled around in my head. I thought I knew Skip. How could anyone be so good at separating his two lives that the one side (me) would have no suspicion of the other (a life of crime)? The warning gift last night was a clear indicator that the crime side knew about me. What if Skip had three lives, or four?