Mercury Rising (Tin Can Mysteries Book 1)

by Jerusha Jones

  Sloanie filled me in as she navigated morning rush hour. She’d scored us coveted chaperone positions for the second-grade’s class tour of Franz Bakery due to a wave of influenza that was already decimating the usual herd of mother class helpers. My niece, Ginger, was in the first grade, and so not quite eligible (kids had to be at least seven years old in order to go on the tour), but Sloanie informed me that she’d been finagling spots on the annual tours with the second grade since Ginger had been in preschool.

  An elementary-school field trip that the adults fought over? This I had to see. Yet all I could imagine was running around frantically trying to keep wriggly little people from falling into vats of suffocating dough. Not a pretty prospect.

  Sloane zipped through town and got us to the school and signed in with time to spare. Three second-grade classes—close to seventy kids—were milling around in front of the school’s wide entrance where two bright-yellow buses idled. Their little heads bobbed about mid-thigh height to me. It was a cacophony sea of arguing, singing, laughing, taunting, twirling, spitting, forming up into wobbly lines, with a few of them facing backward and staring at the sky as if they’d rather be anywhere else but there. Already my ears hurt. Sloane patted my arm and gave me a bolstering smile above the noise.

  I figured out what the appeal was about two blocks from our destination. It was the scent. Warm, yeasty, moist, wheaty goodness filtered in through the steamed-up bus windows before the driver pulled to a stop.

  It even affected the children. They quieted down except for the occasional sniffled complaint about being hungry. They lifted their noses into the air and gazed at each other in wonder.

  Once we’d all assembled inside, there was a short history lesson which included some astronomical numbers tallying the weights of various ingredients the bakery used on an annual basis. The kids probably didn’t grasp the magnitude of the bakery’s operation, but I was duly impressed. We were issued white paper hats and instructed to stay between the yellow lines. From then on, it was a whir of machinery on a massive scale. I’d been right about the vats—or troughs—of dough. There were mixers big enough for three men to fit inside, and giant furnace-type ovens, and conveyor belts overhead that transported phalanxes of hamburger buns on their way to be sliced and packaged.

  The kids were in dreamy awe, and required very little minding. Sloanie and I were stationed at the rear, in order to encourage the little dawdlers along, but I found that I was gawking just as much as they were. At the end, we were fed a snack—bread and butter, of course.

  But the very best part? Samples—a large paper grocery sack full of various Franz products per adult. Sloane flashed me a triumphant thumbs-up from across the room, and I chuckled with glee.

  Loot! I sensed a thick, custardy bread pudding studded with dried apricots and golden raisins in my near future. Maybe with rum sauce? Mmmm. Comfort food at its finest.

  We did have to listen to the kids singing the jingle, “Franz bread, the good bread, flavor beyond compare!” over and over again all the way back to the school, but it was worth it.

  When we got back to the Tin Can (which Sloanie snickered over), we decided on a long walk—a sort of preemptive strike against the calories we knew we’d be consuming once we unpacked the baked goods. Besides, the wildlife refuge and the crisp turning-into-autumn air beckoned. It was also one more opportunity for me to avoid the reality that I really needed to find more jobs.

  We did what we do best—shared each other’s company without talking. Just being. How I’d missed her. The rustle of dry leaves under our feet and the dappled sunlight reinforced the companionable peacefulness of our trek.

  “Tell me honestly,” she said after close to a mile of long, thoughtful silence. “Are you glad you moved here?”

  We’d reached the riverbank, our toes sinking into the wet sandy ledge left by the receding tide.

  “Are you kidding?” I turned to her with wide eyes that immediately welled up. “More than I can say.” I wrapped her in a tight hug. “More than I can say,” I repeated into her hair.

  “I guess some things haven’t changed,” she murmured with a smile, pulling away a few inches in order to study me closely. “People still talk to you. It’s your special talent—absorbing other people’s confidences. I’d just hoped that you wouldn’t be overwhelmed with an entirely new set of acquaintances. But I guess this level of involvement isn’t something you could leave behind—it’s an intrinsic thing with you.”

  “Do you mean Bettina? Or are you referring to my meddlesomeness in general?” I frowned.

  “No, silly.” She shook her head. “I mean all of them—Bettina, Willow, this guy Cal, even Roxy. I think that detective, too, in his own way. He keeps showing up to talk to you.” She nudged me with her elbow. “Ever wonder why?”

  A great blue heron chose that moment to relieve himself into the water from a low branch about ten feet away. Splat! I jumped about a mile. I hadn’t even noticed the lurking mass of dingy slate-blue feathers tucked into the tree. He extended his long neck and braaacked an obnoxious squawk as though announcing that his major feat for the day had been accomplished. He eyed us for a moment and ruffled himself back into a relaxed hunker.

  Sloane snorted. “On that note, I should be heading home. Grey will be up from his second nap soon, and I need to relieve the babysitter before she pulls her hair out.”

  Sloane came into the Tin Can just for a moment to visit the loo before her drive home. I took the opportunity to inventory the contents of my Franz sample bag. But when I walked Sloane to the front door to say good-bye, we were accosted by Bettina, her fist raised, on the verge of knocking.

  The ends of Bettina’s neatly bobbed hair were flipped out in frazzled directions, and her face was alarmingly pale. She flashed a wan, habitually polite smile at Sloane, but gripped my arm so hard I winced. “I’m going to lose my nerve. You have to come tomorrow night.” Then she marched inside, straight for the kitchen and the French press.

  “What did I tell you?” Sloane whispered. “Intrinsic. You’re an irresistible magnet for people who need to spill their own beans.” But she said it with a grin and one knowingly lifted eyebrow and gave me a good-luck flit of her fingers before she slipped away.

  oOo

  I was supposed to be drumming up more work. Focus. Concentrate. Apply myself diligently like the good little entrepreneur I was hoping to be. Yeah, right.

  It’s just that when you have the lurking threat of an undercover sting operation looming over you, it’s a little hard to pay appropriate attention to the more mundane aspects of life.

  Which meant I cooked up a storm instead of engaging in schmoozing under the guise of networking. And, having no one else to inflict the results of my stress flurry upon, I knocked on the Ecclesiastes’ hull once again.

  “What’s this?” Cal asked when he emerged. His gaze was fastened on the warm baking pan I was cradling in its potholder nest against my chest.

  “I want to make a deposit against future services—and advice.”

  He blinked, then grinned, then held out his arms. “Okay.”

  When I handed over the bread pudding, he just about stuck his nose in the custard, inhaling deeply.

  “Got any tips for me?” I asked. “I presume you know about Bettina’s harebrained scheme. I can’t believe that detective is going along with it.”

  “Karleen Jett?” Cal brightened, his blue eyes glittering with amusement. “That girl’s got balls, for sure. Yeah, I know,” he added more somberly. “Don’t worry. Karleen will have everything lined up perfectly. Your job is to keep Bettina from freaking out.”

  “Terrific,” I moaned.

  It had taken two hours of coffee, brioche, and talking to restore Bettina to some semblance of confidence in her own ability to act normal under pressure. If we had one thing going for us, it was that Norman didn’t have much experience with what was normal behavior for Bettina since they’d only had one in-person date. Chatting on Faceb
ook didn’t count in this context, a fact I had reminded Bettina of over and over again.

  In the process, I’d revealed more of the digital high jinks I’d performed for my last employer than I’d intended to, but the fresh information had seemed to set Bettina’s mind at ease. I was worried she now viewed me as an expert in cybercrime. She didn’t fully grasp that I’d been on the (legally?) perpetrating side of the equation, not the solving side.

  I checked my watch. The plan was for Willow and me to be in the restaurant before Bettina showed up with Norman. Karleen—whom I had yet to meet—was going to be there too. I’d purposely skipped breakfast and lunch, knowing I would have to make a good showing of eating at the restaurant and not give the waitress a reason to hurry us out before the operation was completed.

  I wasn’t altogether sure my stomach was up to the task of eating for effect, because Norman, in his current state of thriftiness, had chosen the local franchise of a casual-dining chain of restaurants which shall remain nameless. But you’d know the name if I told you, and it was the type of business that had never had a reputation for anything other than greasy breakfasts (made with the kind of grade-B eggs that come already scrambled in five-gallon buckets) served all day and at record speed. High turnover was the name of the game. I couldn’t imagine how Norman could clinch the deal in such a nonconducive environment, but that was his problem, not mine.

  It was time to get ready. Fortunately, I only needed to look like a road-weary traveler with an undiscerning palate.

  CHAPTER 19

  “I’m sorry Roxy couldn’t make it,” I said to Willow as we pulled into the restaurant parking lot.

  In her final tizzy before we had to leave her alone at Dock’s End so Norman could unsuspectingly pick her up, Bettina had decided that more would be merrier. By that point, embarrassment over her gullibility had been replaced with the need to be surrounded by supportive friends. Which meant she’d also brought Roxy up to speed while simultaneously demanding that, as the marina manager, she permanently ban Norman from marina property—after the sting was over, of course.

  I had no idea how Roxy could enforce such a restriction, but she’d promised without reservation. She had, however, declined the invitation to dinner.

  “It’s the smoking,” Willow said, turning to me, her face scrunched with worry. “She’s killing herself, you know. She can’t go five minutes without a cigarette which rules out going pretty much anywhere in public. She’ll drive me places in the car, but she won’t actually go inside with me.” Her tone was mournful. “Like this”—she pointed at the gigantic poster of a cinnamon roll hung in the restaurant’s plate glass window—“it’s a treat for me to be taken out to eat by someone I like, have a conversation about whatever, you know? But Gran would never…” She shrugged and quickly looked out the side window.

  What a loss. I desperately wanted to reach over and hug her, but I wasn’t yet sure how she’d respond to a physical display of affection. I didn’t think she was getting much of that at home either—which made her budding boy-crush thing all the more worrisome. Because she probably would end up seeking affection at some point, and since her options were limited, she might go after an illusory, abusive source out of desperation. The poor kid.

  Worse yet, I didn’t have any consoling answers for her. I set the Volvo’s emergency brake and opened my door. “Game on,” I said instead. “Ready for incognito?”

  Willow snorted. She’d opted to wear her newsboy cap because it completely covered her blue hair. She looked like an anemic wraith in an oversized grunge band t-shirt and her favorite ripped jeans.

  I tried to channel the inner musings that the mother of such a child ought to be experiencing, but I was having trouble mustering anything coherent. I settled on being grateful that she wasn’t too embarrassed to be seen with me, for I, too, had on a hat—a giant, floppy sun hat wrapped with a fuchsia bow which Bettina had lent me for the occasion. It was slightly large for me, so I couldn’t imagine how it must overwhelm her tiny frame when she wore it. But our ridiculous get-ups would enable Bettina to spot us from wherever she and Norman happened to get seated in the restaurant, so I’d consented to the contrivance.

  I guess we were lucky. The hostess immediately showed us to an open booth, right next to the entrance. Every time the door opened, a blast of climate-controlled air whirled around us, bringing the chill of unnecessary air conditioning. But there was no way we’d miss Bettina or she’d miss us.

  We were paging through the laminated menus, sticky from all the fingers before ours, when Willow kicked me square in the shin. I bit my tongue but still couldn’t suppress a groan.

  Bettina and her pseudo-amore breezed past us on their way to a corner booth. Norman was even taller than I remembered—probably because I was seeing him from a normal sitting height this time instead of from river level. He had his hand spread across the middle of Bettina’s back in a most proprietary manner. She was doing a great job of not visibly cringing.

  I sipped ice water and debated between a Reuben sandwich and a Cobb salad. Willow was studying the pictures of gooey chocolate and ice cream concoctions on the dessert page with an intensity that ought to be reserved for subjects like ancient Greek philosophy or calculus.

  It was my turn to kick her under the table. “One green thing,” I muttered. “At least one. Even if it’s only a pickle spear garnish.” My token mother-ism for the day.

  Willow snorted and flipped back to the senior citizen specials—all of which ought to come with a side of Metamucil at this particular franchise, I thought. A moment later, her gray eyes were flashing at me from across the table. “There, there—there!” she hissed with a jerk of her chin.

  I swiveled surreptitiously to see an older couple being led into the restaurant’s other wing. The woman put up a subdued but insistent fuss about something, and the hostess swung around to lead them into our section.

  Willow gave me a knowing grin. “Detective Jett.” She shrugged. “Don’t know who the guy is, though. She was divorced ages ago. Maybe she has a new boyfriend too.”

  After more disgruntled pointing toward the ceiling vents and stern shakes of her head, Detective Jett got the hostess to concede a center table set for four potential diners kitty-corner from Bettina’s booth. With a scraping of chairs and noisy rustling, Detective Jett and her date claimed their seats and ordered coffee.

  From my vantage point, I could tell that Norman was already yakking Bettina’s ear off. I knew Detective Jett had coached her on specific things she needed to hear from Norman, particular phrasing that would serve as incontrovertible evidence in court. Bettina was going to have to play dumb in order to get him to lay out the details of his plan again—and especially what he was promising in return for her investment—in the most basic language. If she could get him to produce a contract, that would be a coup d’état.

  I supposed my audio recording could be used as a backup, but it hadn’t been taken with anyone’s consent, so it would present a tricky legal problem. Detective Jett was right to want Norman’s deceit and fraudulent motives laid out as cleanly as possible.

  Norman’s upper half was tilted way over the table as he tried to persuade Bettina. She leaned back and scowled at him, which made him stretch even farther, his long fingers drawing imaginary profits on the tabletop as he made his point. His body language, the pressure he was applying—all spoke to his desperation. He was way beyond the soft-sell stage.

  And from all appearances, Bettina was performing superbly. Her obvious reluctance was drawing Norman out more and more. I didn’t know what she’d been worried about. Once, as the waitress was plunking our plates on the table, I caught her eye across the room and gave her an approving nod. She just scowled harder and fiddled with a sugar packet. Attagirl—string him along.

  “Gimme the play-by-play.” Willow stuffed three French fries in her mouth and waved the lettuce leaf from her burger at me in an obliging gesture. “I’m dying here.” She’d sneaked
a few peeks over the back of the booth earlier, but she was doing a remarkable job of not blowing our cover. Although, frankly, I doubted Norman was paying much attention to anything other than his lonely-widow prey.

  “He certainly has the gift of gab. Oh, wait,” I said, sitting up straighter for a better view. “Ah-ha. He just slid a leather notebook onto the table, and he’s wiping it with his sleeve. Probably got maple syrup on it. Now he’s opening it—slowly—there are papers inside. He’s poking at the papers—talking—now he closed it again.” I huffed and slumped against the vinyl cushion. My Reuben no longer looked appetizing. I shook my head and swirled the ice in my glass. “More talking. Bettina’s stabbing her steak like it’s not already dead and cooked. I think she ordered the most expensive thing on the menu. He must have said something that made her especially mad.”

  “Geez. What a blowhard.” Willow squeezed an upturned ketchup bottle, and it spluttered disgusting red droplets all over her T-shirt instead of on her plate where she’d been aiming it.

  I handed her my napkin. “The notebook’s open again. He’s hardly touched his food, but Bettina’s polishing off her broccoli now, which is saying something.” I love food, including most green things—my earlier order to Willow hadn’t been hypocritical—but broccoli is one cruciferous vegetable that has never wormed its way into my good opinion. Uniformly avoiding it is probably the only matter of policy I’d ever agreed with former president George Bush the Elder about.

  “There it is,” I whispered excitedly. “He’s pulling out a few papers now, gesturing with his pen—looks like…looks like…yes! Bettina’s pulled the papers over to her side of the table. She’s chewing on the pen cap. She’s blotting something with her napkin, asking a question…Norman looks like he’s going to pop a vein. Yes! She’s signing!”

  “Really?” Willow squealed and snuck a gander of her own around the edge of the booth.