Murder Most Unlucky: A Cozy Mystery (A Carolyn Neville Mystery Book 5)

by John Duckworth

  Instead of responding, Stuart nervously cast an eye about for anyone who might match the pictures we’d just seen. “God knows I didn’t want to get them involved.”

  Gallagher said something a lot worse than blazes. “Come over here,” he added, leading the way out of the corner and into the snake department.

  He pointed at a small red-and-black reptile. “Coral snake. Second-strongest venom in the world. Get bit by this bad boy, you’re dead in twelve hours or less.”

  Stephen was poking his phone. “Actually, you’re much worse off with a king cobra. Deadliest anywhere.”

  Gallagher grunted. “So what? My point is these little devils are nothing compared to the Boudreauxs.”

  “Point taken,” I said.

  He scratched his chin. “My former employer won’t jump into the snake pit. Guess I don’t blame ’em. Most agents have families. Thanks to the Boudreauxs, I don’t. Nothing to lose. I’ll risk everything to bring ’em down.”

  He made the fingers-to-lips gesture again.

  “I won’t lie to you. Since you’ve gotten in the family’s way, you’ll all have to do the same.”

  Not surprising, but I swallowed anyway.

  “God, I need a smoke,” he said.

  I wanted to give him one, but patted him on the shoulder instead.

  Stuart still stared at the coral snake. I half expected him to stick his hand in the terrarium and get it all over with.

  “What’s your plan?” I asked Gallagher, who was tapping his envelope on the wall with nervous energy.

  He looked over my shoulder. “The family won’t stop until they either get the money or get rid of all of us. How much cash could the three of you raise?”

  I called Stephen and Stuart over; he repeated the question.

  “Kind of personal, isn’t it?” Stephen asked.

  Gallagher scoffed. “So is being on the receiving end of a power drill.”

  “Wow,” Stephen said. “What do they do with it?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Stuart raised a hand. “I’ve got about thirty thousand in the bank.”

  “I can spare ten,” I said.

  “Ten dollars?” Stephen cried.

  “Thousand,” I said. “Not that I can actually spare it. I am, after all, an editor.”

  “I’m in for five thousand,” Gallagher said. “Federal pensions aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”

  Stephen shook his head. “If I sell my guitar, I might get six hundred. It’s a Fender Stratocaster. Signed by—”

  “No time to go on eBay, kid,” Gallagher said.

  “Two hundred then. My rent’s impossible.”

  I did some quick arithmetic in my head. “Not nearly enough.”

  “Then you need a place to go until we can get a mole into the mansion,” the former agent said.

  “How about the witness protection program?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “You’re not testifying against the Boudreauxs. You just need a safe place to stay.”

  While we all pondered that, a sudden loud POP sounded behind us. I almost lost my balance on the slimy floor. Stuart gasped. Stephen dropped his smartphone, which landed with a crack. Whirling, Gallagher slipped a hand under his coat. I hadn’t thought about whether he’d have a gun.

  There stood a mom and a wailing preschooler. A blob of brown rubber on a string dangled from his fist. Judging from the more intact wares of a nearby balloon vendor, it had been a snake only moments before.

  Gallagher stood down, looking like he wanted to spit. Stuart rubbed his forehead with the heel of his palm. Stephen, swearing, picked up his phone and poked to make sure it still worked.

  “Any darker corners around here?” I asked. “And quieter?”

  Stuart looked at his map. “The aquarium, maybe.”

  We worked our way back there. I wanted to play chameleon and dart from palm tree to palm tree, camouflaged. Had to settle for slinking like a salamander and holding my map to the side of my face.

  I’d hoped for one of those huge, glassed-in hallways where sharks and whales wheel in circles under, over, and beside you. But all the big sea life was in outdoor pools. We ended up in the 4D Theater, huddling in the back row and waiting for the lights to go down.

  The place wasn’t packed. “I need popcorn,” Stephen said.

  “Nothing personal,” I whispered, “but please sit down and shut up.”

  He plopped into his seat and folded his arms. “Just for that, I won’t tell you my idea.”

  “Our loss,” I said.

  “Go ahead,” Gallagher mumbled.

  “We could stay with the Amish.”

  Long pause.

  “So riding in the car behind a couple of buggies makes you an expert on the Amish?” I asked.

  “No. But Witness proved it can be done.”

  “That was fiction,” Stuart whispered.

  Gallagher looked at the ceiling. “Not the craziest thing I’ve ever hear, but it’s close.”

  I shook my head. “How’s it supposed to work? Why in the world would they take us in?”

  Stephen leaned forward. “They’re kind, right? Forgiving and all that?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And you’re religious. You could talk them into it.”

  I tried to think of an intelligent response, but could only manage a sputter.

  Stuart looked thoughtful. “It’s the craziest idea I’ve ever heard. But I don’t have another one. And I’m in no position to argue.”

  The lights were going down. “The only way to stop the Boudreauxs,” Gallagher said, “is to use you three as bait and nab them before they pull the trigger. Or whatever Jeremy did to the guy at the golf course.”

  I settled back in my seat and closed my eyes. It made a lot of sense if you were Harrison Ford. I wasn’t even Emily Blunt.

  “But you’ll have to find a way to do it without endangering the Amish,” Gallagher advised. “Crap like kindness and forgiveness don’t mean a thing to Max. Or Angel.”

  The movie started. The music came up. I stared at the toothy sharks and toothier dolphin trainers, counting my blessings and coming up with zero.

  Gallagher touched my shoulder. “Talk to you soon,” he said, and left.

  It was the only way, I guessed. Except for all the others, like suicide and plastic surgery.

  “Can I get my popcorn now?” Stephen whispered.

  “Only if you pick me up a tub of Milk Duds.”

  “They don’t come in a tub.”

  “Then make it two boxes, the longest Twizzler you can find, and a thirty-two-ounce cup of anything wet.”

  It might not be my last meal but if things turned out the way I feared, there’d be no time to choose the menu.

  Chapter 6

  The truth was I knew practically nothing about the Amish except what I’d read. Rumspringa, suspenders, straw hats, shoofly pie—that was about it, except for their trademark peacemaking.

  The closest I’d gotten to an Amish guy was a Mennonite sophomore named Sam I’d dated in college. He dressed in Levis, never wore a hat, and was surprisingly carnal-minded. After two weeks of fighting him off on the dorm lounge’s couch, I gave him his walking papers.

  I didn’t mention that, of course, on the way back to the motel.

  “Better start practicing our Amishness,” Stephen said, prodding his phone.

  “Okay,” I said. “I forgive you for being such a jerk.”

  He ignored me. “Maybe I should grow a beard.”

  Stuart groaned. “Do we have to? If I don’t shave every day, I start itching.”

  “Harrison Ford didn’t grow one,” I said.

  He breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Do they say stuff like thee and thou?” Stephen asked. “’Cause I don’t think I can do that and sound natural.”

  “Look it up,” I said.

  There was silence from the back seat. Finally he gave a grunt and leaned forward. “No the
es and thous. At least not enough to shake a dowsing stick at. Some of them have a weird accent where they say mischeef instead of mischief.”

  “Doubt we’ll be using that word on a daily basis,” I said. “Same with handkercheef and sneef.”

  Pulling into the motel parking lot, I suggested we meet later for dinner at the Burger King next to the Subway. “I’m going to consult with one of the world’s greatest authorities on the plain people.”

  “Who?” Stephen asked.

  “My mother.”

  He started to ask something else, like what made her such an expert, but probably figured he’d antagonized me enough for one day.

  In my room I got out my phone and prepared to hit speed dial. Then I paused in midair.

  I loved Betty Neville, but sometimes there seemed to be something between us—something as thick as Hoover Dam and high as one of those super-skyscrapers in Qatar and the United Arab Emirates that made the Sears Tower look like a car wash.

  We talked every couple of weeks, my dad on the extension and saying huh every few minutes. Almost always we finished with a brief interrogation about my love life. Dad knew better than to bring that up, but Mom couldn’t seem to resist. I’d learned to keep things as vague as possible, usually mentioning some guy I’d seen on the street, describing him and saying he was a possibility if only I could find the time. Then came the sighs and the I-love-yous and Dad’s sleepy-sounding me-toos.

  Resolving to keep things noncontroversial this time, I pushed the button and connected with Idaho Falls. Mom answered, breathless as usual. She was healthy, but a little too fond of her own cooking.

  “Carolyn, sweetheart, I was just making lunch. Vegetable soup. No celery this time. Your dad hates it.”

  “Oh. Well, I can call back.”

  “No, no. I’m just starting it now. Your father’s not here, though.”

  “That’s fine. I mainly need to talk to you.”

  She made a concerned noise. “What’s wrong, dear?”

  “You’re a big fan of Christian novels, right? Especially the Amish ones.”

  “Oh, my word, yes. Wanda Brunstetter, Kathryn Cushman, Cindy Woodsmall, and especially Beverly Lewis.”

  “I’ve got some questions.”

  She sounded excited. “Carolyn, are you finally going to work for a godly publisher? Not that you have to, but you know how I feel about—”

  “I do. And no, I’m still working for Pendleton House.”

  “I see.” I could hear the disappointment, but it wasn’t the first time. “Fire away,” she said.

  “Umm . . . are most of them farmers?”

  “Yes. But they make furniture, too, and some wonderful food. And they have roofing companies. I’ve seen ads in the newspaper for some kind of electric Amish fireplace, but that doesn’t sound right, does it? The pictures look so fake, like a bunch of cab drivers with pasted-on beards.”

  I had a pad of paper and pen on the nightstand, but they didn’t seem necessary yet. “Are there different kinds of Amish, like Baptists and Methodists?”

  “They’re either Old Order or New Order.”

  I started writing. “How do they feel about the rest of us?”

  “They call us the world or the English. They don’t seem to mind us, but I’m sure they think we’re misinformed.”

  “If I were Amish, what would I do in a typical day?”

  “Weekday or Sunday?”

  “Weekday.”

  “Depends on how old you are. You’d probably get up before dawn, milk the cows or start making breakfast. People have different assignments. The men go to the fields, or their businesses; the women tend to the chores and raising the children. Oh, and some of the men work in factories. A lot of them take naps after lunch.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I read one book where an Amish woman about your age wanted to be more like the men. She used a saw to cut some poles for a barn raising and cut off three toes. She wrapped her foot in a towel and—”

  “I get the picture.”

  “Of course, her husband disapproved. But he came to understand that she needed to be herself, to use the gifts the Lord gave her. Just one reason to find a good man and settle down.”

  I sighed. “Right.”

  “Hey, you know what? You should go to this website, amishamerica.com. You probably don’t have time to read all of Beverly Lewis’ books.” She paused. “How come you need to know all this, honey?”

  “I’ll . . . be visiting an Amish community soon.”

  “Oh, it’s about time you took a vacation. Send us some pictures, will you?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Anything else? Are you eating right? Any nice men on the horizon?”

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “Whoops. My soup’s boiling over. I’ll tell Dad you called.”

  “Love you,” I said.

  “Me, too.”

  I didn’t have time to fact-check her info, but most of it sounded believable.

  Like I said, I love her to death.

  But, as always, I was reminded why we don’t talk more often.

  Next morning it took six hours to get back to Pennsylvania. When I saw my first hex barn, I slowed down.

  “I’m hungry,” Stephen said.

  “One thing at a time,” I said. “First we need directions to a community that’ll take us in. Then we need clothes.”

  A sign that said GENUINE AMISH FURNITURE loomed down the road. “Must be fake,” Stephen said. “Like ‘genuine’ cubic zirconium.”

  “Whatever.” I set the turn signal. “Not looking for trundle beds today anyway.”

  There were rocking chairs all over the porch. I expected a dog, or at least a chicken, to be dozing next to a pickle barrel. All I saw was what looked like a dead frog under the threshold.

  A little bell over the screen door tinkled as we entered. The showroom was the size of a one-room schoolhouse, paneled with knotty pine and smelling of sawdust.

  A bearded man wearing a leather apron looked up from the counter and nodded. “Afternoon,” he said. No salesman’s sparkly smile, just honest eyes and a jaw like Abraham Lincoln’s. I liked Amish life already.

  “Is there anything you’re especially looking for?” he asked.

  “Actually, yes. But it’s not a piece of furniture.”

  “Oh. We have refreshments if you like.”

  Stephen looked around eagerly.

  “Later,” I said.

  A middle-aged woman in gray dress and white bonnet emerged from a back room, looking like she’d just sucked a whole basketful of lemons. “Can I help you?”

  “They’re not looking for furniture,” the clerk said.

  She raised her chin and narrowed her eyes. “If you’ve come to steal our recipes or take pictures of us with your ‘smartphones,’ I must ask you to leave.”

  Stephen leaned toward me. “They believe having your picture taken steals your soul.”

  The woman looked tired, as if she’d had this conversation too many times. “You are thinking of some Native Americans. For us, it is a matter of making a graven image. Many of our young ones don’t agree. They take pictures of themselves in front of their lunches and send them to others who apparently have nothing to do.”

  “No pictures,” I said. “No recipes, either. Just an unusual question.”

  She waited, one gray eyebrow raised.

  “We’re interested in taking a . . . retreat by living in one of your communities for a short time.”

  She looked at the clerk. He shrugged.

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” she said.

  “Did you see Witness?” Stephen asked.

  “The movie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course not. A few of the others have. I pray for them.”

  She turned on her heel and walked into the back. The clerk looked at the floor, shaking his head.

  The woman was back in a minute or so, followed by a shy-looking m
an in his thirties. He was beardless, red-faced, still holding a wooden mallet in his hand. He reminded me of that actor, John Krasinski, but more square-jawed.

  “This is my son, Aaron,” the woman announced. I couldn’t tell whether she was bragging or apologizing, since everything she said came out like a police summons.

  She repeated what we’d said, then waited. He looked as baffled as the other two had.

  “You’ll have to speak to Bishop Stoltzfus,” he said. “His place is about five miles from here on Smoker Road. Turn right, then left.”

  Stephen stepped up. “Know where we can get some Amish clothes?”

  Aaron started to say something, but the woman interrupted. “Deal with the inner man before the outer one.”

  “Fine by me,” Stephen said, and examined the snack rack at the register. “Hey, Cashew Crunch! I’ll take two bags.”

  Stuart ambled over. “Beefstick for me.”

  The clerk rang them up.

  The woman shook her head. “Snacks. Aaron’s idea.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  Her expression said she regretted it.

  I looked at Aaron. He looked at me, then away, blushing.

  My face felt awfully warm.

  “Perhaps we’ll see you again,” I said.

  “If the Lord wills.”

  I hoped He did.

  Next day, bright and early, we pulled up at the Stoltzfus farm. The barn was red as a raw steak, the house white clapboard with a welcoming porch. A windmill sat about 50 feet away.

  “Nice place,” Stephen said.

  “Pure Norman Rockwell,” Stuart added, but still seemed nervous.

  A mid-sixtyish woman in traditional clothes and wire-rimmed glasses answered our knock. She reminded me of Nurse Ratched at the furniture store, only with more honey than vinegar. A little girl, a miniature version of her in every way, peeked around the door frame.

  “Yes?” the woman asked.

  I made the usual introductions, invoking Aaron’s name to gain credibility. She looked puzzled, a bit worried. “Just a moment,” she said, and closed the door.

  We looked at each other. “We’re screwed,” Stuart said. “And I can’t say I blame her.”