Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series)

by Spain, Shirley

  Casually, Jewels glanced in the rearview mirror. Instantly the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck leaped to attention. Dread ascended the back of her throat. Was that green truck following her?

  Without losing concentration on the road ahead, she strained for a better look at the pickup in the rearview mirror. Appeared to be a newer Dodge. Tandem wheels. Forest green. Tinted windows. Not the run of the mill pickup. Mega bucks had been invested for that Ram.

  Her eyes cut to the dash clock: 3:05. At the next light she would cruise into Circle K. Grab a Diet Coke from the fountain. Browse the magazine rack. Waste five or ten minutes. At 3:15, leave. If the person behind the wheel of that Dodge wasn’t intentionally tailing her, the truck should be well on its way to wherever it was going. But if that green dually appeared in her rearview again, clearly, she would have to engage the mindset rules of combat, continuing with heightened awareness and escalating with plans to avoid possible confrontation.

  Chapter Five

  3:15 P.M. After paying for the handful of magazines and the Thirst Quencher, Jewels hustled to the H1. Not wanting to alert the would-be follower that she was suspicious, uncharacteristically she kept her head down, acting like she was absorbed in fumbling with a tangle of keys.

  Once inside the safety of the Hummer, she pretended to touch-up her lipstick using the rearview mirror to visually scan behind her. So far, so good. No fancy green Dodge.

  Jewels turned on the radio. It was tuned to The Oldies, Rock-n-Roll. Music would calm her. Help her think.

  Again her eyes shifted to the rearview mirror. Still no sign of the green Dodge. “Okay,” she sighed with relief. The radio whispered in the background. A commercial ended. A song was ready to play, she cranked the volume. After hearing the first half dozen notes, she knew it was “Bad Moon Rising” by Creedence Clearwater Revival. Was that an omen? Laughing it off, Jewels chalked up the notion to extreme paranoia and quickly changed the subject. “Better check in,” she muttered, lowering the radio volume to command the voice-activated phone system to call the office.

  “New Greensburgh Press, Belinda speaking. How may I direct your call?”

  “Belinda—”

  “Jewels! Things are crrrrazy around here. Are you okay? Reporters have been calling for you all afternoon. They want to interview you. Sorry to hear about your friend.”

  “Thanks, Belinda. And yes, I’m fine. Any crises? Press still running?”

  “No crises that I know of, and yes, the press is on schedule. Are you coming back to the office today? What do you want me to tell the reporters? Did you call your FBI guy? He called here for you, again.”

  Jewels snickered. She’d never known anyone who could talk as fast as Belinda without taking a breath. “Belinda, you can always make me laugh,” she said, a slight, but genuine, grin sneaking over her lips.

  She glimpsed up at the scene in her rearview mirror. A fancy green Dodge tandem wheeler had just pulled into traffic two or three cars behind her. Was it the same green pickup?

  “Jewels? Jewels? Do we have a bad connect—”

  “We’ll talk when I get to the office. See you in ten minutes.” Jewels tapped the END button, disconnecting the call. Her undivided attention had to be focused on that green pickup, whose driver was either the world’s worst shadow, or didn’t give a hoot if she knew she was being followed. Either way, not good.

  Double-checking the truck in her rearview mirror, she concluded it was the same truck. Even had tinted windows.

  “Shit!” Swearing was not part of her everyday vocabulary and when she used it, she was feeling pushed to the brink.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER. The green Dodge had blatantly followed her to the Press. Parking in her designated spot, she again pretended to primp in the mirror. The truck cruised into the Maverick convenience store across the street and parked with its hood facing the Press lot.

  “I got you now,” Jewels whispered, squinting to see the license plate. But the front bumper was bare and the way the truck was parked, it was impossible to see the rear to nab the number. “Damn,” she blurted out, shaking her head in frustration. Maybe she should ask Belinda to get her another fountain Coke. While she was there she could jot down the creep’s license plate number. Almost instantly she shook her head. “Jeez, Jewels,” she said in reprimand to herself. “What are you thinking? That could be Sharon’s killer behind the wheel. Belinda’s life could be in danger if you sent her over there.”

  Casually stepping out of the Hummer, the Gucci handbag slung over her shoulder, she reached across the seat to pick up the Thirst Quencher. After locking her vehicle with the remote key fob, she proceeded to confidently stroll toward the Press, the spiked heels of her shoes clacking against the cement sidewalk with each brisk step.

  After only a few strides, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck jumped to attention again. A disturbing wave lapped her spine. The driver of that fancy green truck was watching her ... she felt it. Hurrying her pace, she couldn’t wait to reach the security of her office, located only about thirty feet from the main door of the Press.

  “You made it,” Belinda cheerfully greeted as Jewels hustled inside.

  Smiling, Jewels couldn’t help but think how Belinda’s personality was so much like that of a puppy dog: always happy to see you no matter what, and always having a way of making you feel just a little bit better by being around. But Belinda’s feel-good words were eclipsed by the unnerving feeling of being watched.

  Unable to shake the urge to look one more time, she paused at the entry and leaned her entire body backward in an attempt at nonchalance to peek out the window at the Maverick. Sighing, somewhat relieved, her shoulders relaxed. At least the green Ram was still parked where she could see it.

  With papers in her hand, Belinda popped out from behind her desk, dashing toward Jewels. Rifling through them, she spouted, “The Tribune called, as did Sarah Kimball—”

  Thrusting her free hand forward like a stop sign, “Not now. I’m sorry, Belinda, I need some time alone, undisturbed. Hold all calls, cancel my engagements for tonight and please don’t interrupt me unless it’s a dire emergency.”

  Stunned, Belinda stood there, mouth gaping. “Uh, okay,” she softly replied, all enthusiasm sufficiently squashed as Jewels hurried into her office.

  With the office door locked, she marched straight for her plush office chair, setting down her Thirst Quencher close to her computer and dropping her purse in the bottom right drawer of her desk before taking a gander out the window toward the Maverick. “Still there,” she mumbled, remotely closing the blinds that covered both inside and outside windows in a self-imposed lockdown of sorts.

  Stretching her arms above her head, she collapsed into her big executive chair, sighing. “This could be a long afternoon,” she conceded, slipping out of her heels while swallowing a sip of Diet Coke from the big Thirst Quencher.

  Now in the total privacy, comfort and security of her office, she retrieved the folded placemat from her bra, ironing it on the desk with her hands. “Sharon Marie,” she whispered, studying the scribblings. “What is this, and why would someone want to kill you to keep it a secret? Or do they even know about this map or that you passed it to me?”

  Leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes, slowly tilting her head from side to side and rubbing her stiff neck. “Exactly who are they and why did you give the map to me ... and why today?”

  Questions swirled in her mind like scraps of paper caught in a dust devil. Talking aloud sorted her thoughts, helped her think more clearly. And right now, she needed all the clear-thinking assistance she could muster for her boggled mind.

  After rolling her shoulders in an exaggerated up-back-down motion a few times, she opened her eyes, exhaled deeply, continued her thinking process aloud. “Was the person behind the wheel of that green pickup following Sharon? Is that same person now following me? Could the pickup driver also be the hooded man from the cafe ... Sharon’s murderer?”

  Only
one point was painfully clear: Whoever killed

  Sharon, presumably for the map, probably wouldn’t think twice about killing her, too. Some kind of action was required on her part, but what? Whatever she did, it would have to ensure that, heaven forbid should a terrible accident befall her this afternoon or later tonight, both her and Sharon’s deaths would not be in vain.

  Of course the simplest solution—Plan A she called it—would be to surrender the map to the police and let them deal with it. Still, she wondered why Sharon made her promise not to hand it over to the authorities as well as why Sharon gave the map to her in the first place. The remaining classic reporters’ questions, where, when, what and how, could be answered later, after she figured out the whys.

  Kneading the plush carpet with her toes like a content cat, she mulled over the possibilities. Could law enforcement be involved with Sharon’s murder? If so, were they locals or feds? Was it a rogue officer or two, or an entire department? And why? Why kill Sharon? For the map? Jewels turned her attention to the poorly sketched drawing.

  Near the top, under SPOF HIDEOUT, the words UINTA MOUNTAINS were scrawled. In the middle of the paper, a rectangular box. SPOF was written on it with groups of lines, like a child would make to indicate roads, shooting out from and around the SPOF box, with one of them marked MAIN. Near the top left corner, a small square labeled CABIN traced over numerous times to make the letters thick then underlined multiple times for obvious emphasis. At the opposite side on the bottom, a squiggly oval with LAKE written across it. What was the point of this so-called map? Would it lead to a lost treasure? Reveal a dark secret? Jewels was clueless. “The only thing I know for sure, is the SPOF HIDEAWAY is somewhere in the Uinta Mountains,” she sighed.

  It took only a moment of further contemplation for Jewels to conclude Plan A had too many drawbacks, not the least being the fact she had promised her dying friend she wouldn’t give the map to the cops. So no, the cops would not get the map from her. At least not yet.

  On the other hand, if a psycho was following her and something did happen to her tonight, she would want to ensure someone in law enforcement knew why she was killed ... presumably for that darned map!

  “Better come up with a Plan B,” she mumbled, gulping another swig of Diet Coke.

  An idea popped into her head: make two photocopies of the map and create two detailed voice recordings of her encounter with Sharon and mail them to trusted contacts in law enforcement. One map and one tape would be Fed-Ex’d to the FBI, attention Special Agent In Charge Hines. Even though she didn’t want to date him, she figured she could trust him. After all, this matter with Sharon was business. Dating was personal. The other tape and map she’d Overnight Express to her friend, Jodie Clarkston, the Westmoreland County Sheriff, whom she knew she could trust.

  The envelope addressed to Hines would be placed in Belinda’s out box. The other, addressed to Sheriff Clarkston, dropped in the out box in Production located in the wing opposite her office. That way if someone broke into the Press and ransacked her office area, he would only find the envelope addressed to Hines. A thief probably wouldn’t think of searching the other end of the building for a second envelope, especially if one was found in her office.

  If nothing happened throughout the night, she would arrive at work early in the morning and gather up the envelopes. It would be as simple as that! This envelope caper could continue endlessly, affording as many days as necessary to solve the mystery of the SPOF map’s importance.

  Pleased with her scheme, Jewels immediately fashioned Plan B. Using the scanner connected to her computer, she duplicated two copies of the map. Next, retrieving the pocket-sized voice recorder she stored in her desk drawer—a reporter’s necessity, of course—she verbally documented her story. Once the original recording was finished, she copied the tape. Lastly, she addressed two special delivery envelopes each with a SPOF map and audio recording inside.

  With Plan B ready to execute, Jewels leaned back in her chair, allowed her eyelids to slide shut and engaged in deep breathing exercises to unwind.

  5:45 P.M. A gentle knocking on her office door snapped her out of relaxation mode.

  “Jewels?” Belinda called through the closed door. “It’s almost six. I’ll be leaving in about five minutes.”

  “Uh, okay. Will you wait for me?”

  “Sure.”

  Tapping the button on the remote to open the blinds covering the outside windows, the view surprised her.

  Wind hissed through the thick branches of the great oak tree. The little wooden bird feeder spewed its contents as it twirled round and round, back and forth, up and down, as if manipulated by a spastic puppet master. Billowing hues of gray and charcoal painted the sky. A violent summer rainstorm was about to assault the valley. And the Maverick parking lot was empty. No green truck.

  “Have to get home before the storm hits,” Jewels mumbled to herself, hurriedly slipping into her heels and gulping the last swig of the Thirst Quencher before dumping the cup in the wastebasket under her desk. Folding the original SPOF map in two and tucking it under her left arm along with the two envelopes, she dug her handbag out of the big drawer and whipped it over her right shoulder. Scampering to the door, she quickly unlocked it, flinging it open.

  Belinda, who had been standing next to the office door like an unsophisticated eavesdropper, reared back in surprise. “You all right, Jewels?”

  “Of course I’m all right, but thanks for asking,” she replied with a little too much pep in her voice while affectionately nudging Belinda on the arm as a show of gratitude for her concern.

  Raising a disbelieving eyebrow, Belinda strained a smile. “How about I walk you to your car,” she offered, zipping up her pink windbreaker and tightening the hood around her face for protection from what was soon to be pelting rain.

  “That would be great, especially if you don’t mind if we make a detour to Production.” A slight smile romped across Jewels’ face as she thought: except for the missing strip of iconic fur that should be encircling Belinda’s cinched up face, her secretary looked like a cartoon Eskimo bundled up for an ice fishing adventure.

  Belinda nodded that the detour was agreeable to her.

  “Please see that this goes out first thing tomorrow morning,” she said, handing her the letter addressed to Hines.

  Eying the addressee, Belinda widened her eyes. “Agent Hines, huh?” A playful grin vaulted across her face.

  Jewels answered with a simple tilt of her head.

  On the way out Jewels dropped off the other envelope in Production and casually stuffed the map in her purse. As they exited the building gabbing, Jewels laughed and giggled, purposely melodramatic, at nearly everything Belinda said. But between the bursts of forced gaiety, her eyes scoped the landscape. No sign of a green Dodge ... yet.

  Chapter Six

  THE HUMVEE’S WINDSHIELD wipers slapped to the beat of the last few bars of the golden oldie. After a few commercial spots, the music resumed. It was CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising” ... again. And again Jewels wondered, Could the song be an omen of treachery to come?

  Her eyes cut to the rearview mirror. No sign of the green pickup. “Well, at least that’s a good omen,” Jewels assured herself, before singing along with the radio.

  The pelting rain subsided into occasional drops. The wipers screeched and moaned an irritating tune as they scraped against the nearly dry glass.

  Switching off the wipers, she piloted the Humvee around the bend of the sleepy highway. Her driveway came into view. A white sedan was parked on the opposite side of her rural mail box. The car reeked of plain clothes law enforcement. Locals or feds? Soon enough she’d know.

  Like magnificent skyscrapers lining the streets of downtown Manhattan, tall pines towered along both sides of the half-mile private lane, leisurely winding back to a spectacular two-story farmhouse dressed in a crisp, white wraparound porch. It was the perfect country home in the perfect, peaceful country setting.


  Jewels poked the garage door opener hooked on the sun visor. The door rose. As the big four wheeler crept into the garage, a quick look in the rearview mirror revealed the unmarked cop car had followed her down the lane. At least it wasn’t a green Dodge pickup.

  With the driver side door ajar, her left foot dangling out, she snatched the SPOF map out of her purse and carefully refolded the white paper placemat into a small square. Reaching under her left armpit inside her bra, she stuffed the map, adjusting it so the corner of the paper would not be revealed through the semi-sheer material of her white silk blouse. Picking up the bloody jacket and draping it over her arm, she slid out of the Hummer, slamming the door shut.

  Before exiting the garage, out of habit Jewels skimmed her hand under the front driver side wheel-well to verify the hideaway spare key to the Humvee was still there. It was. Hiding a spare key under the wheel-well of every vehicle they owned was a habit Robert had instilled in her. Never know when a spare key will come in handy, he used to tell her.

  After completing the hidden key ritual, she walked confidently out of the garage to meet the cops.

  Chapter Seven

  THE GREEN RAM RUMBLED slowly passed Jewels’ driveway. The driver visually tracked the white sedan until it disappeared from sight, swallowed up by the dense trees.

  This was bad; an unexpected turn of events that could have far-reaching, devastating effects. The general had to be informed right away. But the order was clear: don’t break radio silence unless it’s an emergency. A dire emergency.

  “If this ain’t fuckin’ close to a dire emergency I don’t know what is,” he thundered, reaching for the CB mic, stopping short of picking it up. “Nah. Forget it,” he told himself. “What’s the point? Nothing can be done right now anyway.”

  Cloaked in a heavy army boot, his size 15 foot mashed the gas pedal. The Cummins diesel responded, roaring like an agitated lion. Seconds later the metallic howl of the green Dodge faded as it sped away, leaving only remnants of the summer’s quick-moving rain shower in its wake.