“Uh-huh, and before today you’re telling us you had no prior contact with her or anyone in her organization?”
Irked by the insinuating tone in Hines’ voice, Jewels responded curtly, “Like I said, no prior contact with her since the reunion. And I don’t know what organization you’re talking about. Does it happen to have a name, or at least a type? Like a religious cult? A drug ring? White slavery? Or—”
“Why were you meeting her at Peggy Sue’s Deli? And what did she say to you when you got there?” Hines pressed.
Agitated, Jewels replied nastily, “Oh, answering a question with two questions, Mister Hines?”
“Cut out the commentary and just answer my question, Miz Andrasy,” Hines demanded.
Mouth quirked in annoyance, Jewels’ Hungarian temper flared. “My response to that is: you can get all the answers you want from the statements I made to the local police. I’m sure everything you need to know is in that report.” Shooting to her feet, she rushed to the front door, flinging it open.
Boo-Boo followed, standing a few feet behind her as if for moral support.
“I think it’s time for you gentlemen to leave. If you want to talk anymore, make an appointment and my attorney will be present.” Gesturing with her hand for them to get up off their butts and out of her house, she added, “And I’m not joking.”
“Now wait a minute, Miz Andrasy,” Agent Folsum piped up, striding toward her.
“Don’t play that good cop, bad cop routine with me.” Standing tall, Jewels firmly planted her hand on her hips. Face rigid. She meant business. “Now if you two gentleman will pleeeeease leave....”
Outraged, Hines evicted himself from the comfy wingback, indignantly tramping past Jewels. Didn’t even look at her.
Folsum’s body language sagged with regret as he trailed his superior, then quickly backtracked a few steps to claim the recorder still lying on the coffee table, voicing a brief apology as he exited.
Expending enough energy on the door to close it with an angry slam, “Damn FBI! Who do they think they are, anyway?” she grumbled, looking down at a wide-eyed, tail-wagging Boo-Boo. That was the second time she swore out loud that day. Not a good sign.
Chapter Nine
7:25 P.M. So many questions, absolutely zero answers, like the meaning of Sharon’s dying words, Don’t trust the old times. Wearing a faded pair of RockyMountain jeans and a bright salmon colored V-neck T-shirt, Jewels sat in the cozy breakfast nook nestled deep within a large bay window. The house was silent. No radio or TV blaring. Lackadaisically, she nibbled at the cooling microwavable lasagna dinner. Boo-Boo sat at attention, eyeing the table and panting in eager anticipation of the leftovers.
The kitchen was expansive, over eleven-hundred square feet, showcasing all the upscale amenities one would expect to find in a multi-million dollar home, including commercial grade stainless steel appliances, custom dark maple wood cabinets with decorative corbels, fluted fillers and crown moldings, giallo matisse granite counters and backsplash imported from Brazil, and a walk-in pantry larger than the average bedroom.
Sipping on yet another Diet Coke—it was her fourth, maybe even her fifth for the day—she blankly stared at the massive side-by-side Sub Zero refrigerator. The clinking of new cubes dropping from the built-in ice maker caused her to flinch, but didn’t interrupt her silent review of the day’s bizarre events.
Rehashing old times, Kirk Kirkland, her onetime beau, was the first to materialize. Though he never made a career out of football, the guy was a wizard at fixing cars. And practically anything else. Probably close to a genius. If it was mechanical and broken, dime-to-dollar, Kirk could repair it. “Maybe he’s a private inventor or owns a chain of auto repair shops or works for NASA ... regardless, certainly not someone I should be warned not to trust,” she scoffed, talking aloud to herself out of habit. “Besides, I haven’t seen him since graduation and he’s not even a Facebook friend. And knowing his libido, he’s probably got a dozen kids ... maybe by as many women,” she said with a laugh. Out of nervous habit Jewels lightly flicked the side of the Diet Coke glass with her acrylic nails. The glass replied with muffled clinks as she sifted through her memory for possible suspects to be wary of from the old times other than Kirk.
“Currently not in contact with anyone from the old times, like drama club or even childhood friends. No one from the old times is employed at the Press, either past or present.” Swallowing another swig of Diet Coke, “Maybe Sharon’s warning wasn’t about people. Maybe old things ... but what? Spuds Mackenzie and grunge clothes?” Hardly.
Making no progress, Jewels shook her head in frustration, tossed Boo-Boo the remains of the half-eaten microwave dinner and refilled her Diet Coke from the stockpile of cold cans she kept in the restaurant-sized refrigerator.
Her eyes cut to the glowing teal numbers of the digital clock on the built-in microwave: 7:38. “Time to get to work,” she told Boo-Boo who had already completely chewed off and spit out the corners of the plastic disposable dish. But Jewels didn’t concern herself with the mess, she was too preoccupied with Sharon’s death ... her murder.
With the glass of Diet Coke in hand, Jewels shuffled her bare feet into her home office. Located across the entry and opposite the living room, she had direct access to it from the kitchen. In ritualistic preparation to work on the computer, she plunked the drink on the table.
Before Robert’s death, the European-inspired, classic dark cherry pedestal table had served as the main attraction during countless festivities with friends, family and politicians, including the governor. After Robert’s death the elegant table, along with its companions—the matching buffet server and exclusively designed china closet—had been relegated to office furniture. Since the space was no longer privy to social gatherings, Jewels had converted the area to her home office, partly because the room was dead space, but mostly because of the incredible view out the floor to ceiling wall of glass, purposely void of window coverings as to not obstruct the scenery. And after the late afternoon’s summer cloud burst, the landscape was even more breathtaking.
Majestic snow capped mountains towered in the near distance like deities. Aromatic pines and colorful aspen dotted the two-hundred-fifty acres of forest that surrounded her home. Quail, mule deer, ground squirrels and chipmunks were ever present, scampering about and living their lives to the fullest. Every so often, an elk or mountain lion would make a stealthy appearance. The scene was pure Rocky Mountain country, a mere twenty minute drive from downtown New Greensburgh, a new and bustling suburb of Salt Lake City.
The Canfields, Jewels’ closest neighbors, lived across the highway a little more than a mile away. Their teenage daughter worked as Jewels’ part-time housekeeper every Monday, Wednesday and Friday after school. Tomorrow, Friday, the Canfield girl would be over to dust and vacuum.
Scooting the wheeled swivel chair in front of the dark computer, she pressed a button to wake it up. After a few moments of whirling and grinding the machine came to life, waiting for her command.
Dipping into her bra, she retrieved the paper placemat, carefully unfolded it and smoothed it out on the table with her flat palm. After studying it for a moment, she decided to scan it into the computer. Once it had been successfully imported the program prompted her to name it.
“Hmm. What should I call it?” Nibbling on her lower lip, she visually searched the room for ideas. Her sight landed on Boo-Boo who was quietly lying at her feet under the sprawling dining room table. The dog’s head was resting on the mutilated TV dinner tray, a treasure she had toted in from the kitchen.
“Got it!” Rapidly, she typed: BOO-BOO’S DINNER MENU. If someone searched her computer, surely they wouldn’t think of opening a file with such a screwball name in hopes of it being an important and secret document. Unfortunately, she forgot computer basics, including the fact her computer was not password protected nor were any of her files. Anyone with a molecule of computer knowledge could simply turn on her computer
, then check RECENT ITEMS to find the document. If the thief were slightly more computer literate, he could simply search HISTORY and everything she did on that computer would be revealed.
“Now, where to hide the original?” Jewels asked herself, removing it from the scanner. Her eyes were drawn to the towering china closet. Snickering, she knew exactly where she’d conceal it. “How about under the gold flatware case? Surely, no one would look for it there.”
After stashing the map under a mahogany chest of flatware, located in one of the six drawers of the massive china closet, Jewels returned to her desk chair and mentally reviewed the scene with Special Agents Hines and Folsum. What a disaster! It was totally unlike her to be so impatient. So edgy. So stupid. At the very least she should have mentioned the lurking green Dodge.
Like a foul smelling fart in a windowless small room, the thought of someone stalking her wasn’t dissipating quickly enough. Fear shimmied up her spine inducing a sudden shiver.
Oh, how she missed Robert’s warm hands holding her. Caressing her. Reassuring her everything was going to be okay, because together, they could conquer the world ... or in this particular instance, at least prepare a proper defense against whomever was stalking her in that tricked-out Ram. But she was alone. On her own now.
Tears of self-pity and loneliness bathed her cheeks. Sniffling, she smeared them away with the back of her hand. With Robert gone, her personal security consisted of four things: 1) a sophisticated electronic alarm system, which she got out of the habit of arming mainly because the false alarms had practically scared her to death too many times and she especially wouldn’t need a fright like that tonight; 2) the master bedroom doubling as a safe room; 3) her watch dog, Boo-Boo; and, 4) that great equalizer, a handgun, was the one in which she put the most stock.
To help calm her jitters, she reached for the Glock 21 zipped in a mauve striped gun rug stashed next to the computer. Whenever the Canfield girl was scheduled to clean, Jewels locked the handgun in the upstairs gun safe, but at any other time, the Glock was there. Loaded. Thirteen hollow point Hydra-Shok rounds stacked in the high capacity magazine. A fourteenth round rested in the chamber. This was her ready gun. It was ready. So was she.
Having taken a variety of defensive firearms training courses, Jewels knew how to run her gun. And she’d made the conscious, moral decision to pull the trigger, if necessary, to defend her life or that of a loved one.
Out of habit, she patted the gun rug to confirm the forty-five caliber was still inside. Of course, it was and instantly she felt a little safer, a little more in control. But like an ice cube on a hot plate, that safe feeling recklessly hopped and sizzled around in her gut until it evaporated. An unnerving sense of gloominess settled over. Evil was lurking. It was in the air. She knew it. Felt it. Her vibes foretold it. And her vibes were always right. Dead right. And now those vibes were warning her danger was coming her way.
Quickly, she changed the computer program to e-mail, didn’t bother to look at new mail, instead went right to sending a message. To Belinda she typed: MAY BE GONE FOR A WHILE. PLEASE FEED GOMER.
The feed Gomer segment was the message. The warning. The plea for help. A little trick she had learned from the BATFE—Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives—when she reported a story on confidential informants, CI’s as they call them. A CI always had a special code word or phrase to inform agents when targeted information was retrieved or if they were in trouble.
Though she hadn’t always felt that way, Jewels warmed up to the code word concept. Robert had suggested they implement “a civilian version,” explaining their secret phrase would be a way of asking for help when the conventional means of calling the police or dialing nine-one-one were not viable options.
Jewels remembered saying she couldn’t imagine such an instance and thought it was a little too cloak and dagger silly. But Robert persisted, rationalizing since Jewels was often involved in on-the-edge investigative reporting and sometimes with shady characters, having a distress code word or phrase would not be “cloak and dagger silly,” but instead would be smart, like an emergency insurance policy of sorts.
Continuing to resist the idea, though it was beginning to make some sense, she fondly recalled Robert’s what-if scenario and his passionate voice.
“What if you fell victim to a home invasion and suddenly the phone rang and the hostage takers allowed you to answer it, reasoning if they didn’t, somebody might think something was wrong?
“And what if before they let you answer the phone the hostage takers held a knife to your throat, warning if anything funny was said, the blade would slit your throat before you could hang up the phone?
“You, of course, agree to their terms. Caller ID tells you it’s me. Your heart springs hope; maybe I can help. You pick up the phone, but at this point, what could you say to alert me of your dreadful situation without risking having your throat slit?”
Jewels had no answer. Robert was right. They needed a warning code. Subsequently, feed Gomer was hatched.
Besides the two of them, only one other person knew their help code: Jewels’ secretary, Belinda Parker. The instructions were simple: if either of them was to receive a message from Jewels with feed Gomer in it, that was their clue she was in trouble. Big trouble. The kind of trouble where she couldn’t just pick up the phone and dial nine-one-one. It was their cue to send help immediately.
With her vibes warning of impending doom and seemingly escalating in intensity by the minute, she feared it could be a feed Gomer night. If so, maybe help could be solicited in advance. At the very least, perhaps someone could come over to spend the night. But who? Belinda?
“No, wouldn’t want to worry her. Besides, if something bad does happened, I wouldn’t want her involved,” she said aloud, talking herself out of the idea.
Almost instantly Howard Dyson floated into her mind. Knowing he had a concealed carry permit she figured he knew how to run a gun, and having a second firearm would be a bonus from a defensive standpoint. Plus, Howard was in terrific physical condition. Undoubtedly he would be of great value in helping fight off an attacker. And he would offer comfort, like a protective big brother.... “Stop, Jewels,” she blurted out. Shaking her head, she nullified that idea too, though it lingered a moment longer. Honestly, she missed having a man in the house. For extra security. Added defense. Affection?
Flushing the notion of calling Belinda or Howard to babysit her, she pressed her mind for other options. What about help from professionals? You know. Cops. Firemen. Nah, probably not. Couldn’t call nine-one-one ... or could she? She imagined how the conversation might play out.
JEWELS: Uh, yes police, I have a feeling something bad’s going to happen to me tonight. Will you please send somebody over to my house to stay with me until the something bad, which I don’t know exactly what that is yet, happens?
911 OPERATOR: Is an unauthorized person in your home or prowling around your house?
JEWELS: No.
911 OPERATOR: Have you, or someone else, been injured?
JEWELS: No.
911 OPERATOR: Hmph. Exactly what is the problem, Ma’am?
JEWELS: Like I said, I have a feeling something bad is going to happen to me tonight or sometime soon.
911 OPERATOR: (disgusted) Ma’am, this line is reserved for people who need help now. Not people who feel they’re going to need help sometime in the future, but don’t know when or exactly what kind of help is needed. (Hangs up phone.)
Cracking a smile, “Ludicrous,” she blurted aloud, regarding the notion of dialing nine-one-one. It was a fact she had no facts. No tangible proof of any foul play, except the green Dodge pickup that tailed her temporarily. And since the truck didn’t do anything except follow her, she really didn’t even have that, especially not without a license plate number. Right now, her only option was send the feed Gomer e-mail message and hope, just this once, her vibes would be wrong.
If by a one-in-a-million chance her v
ibes had misled her and nothing dreadful transpired tonight, Jewels would simply go to work early tomorrow morning and delete the feed Gomer message from Belinda’s e-mail, right after she gathered the two envelopes addressed to Special Agent Hines and Sheriff Clarkston.
She punched the send key. 7:55 MESSAGE SENT.
Suddenly a black spider, launching a sneak attack from the back of the computer, zoomed down the top of the screen hellbent toward Jewels.
Screaming bloody murder, she engaged the full force of her arms and legs to propel her chair backward with such strength it bulldozed her faithful dog, who had sometime earlier relocated herself from under the table to behind Jewels’ seat. The chair toppled backwards. Boo-Boo yelped, scrambling for cover.
On impact, the chair swiveled, slamming Jewels onto her right side. Carpet fibers grated her soft cheek, but the mild rug burn didn’t slow her down. Madly clawing to her feet, she barreled into the entry seeking cover behind the ornately carved cafe doors leading to the kitchen.
Cautiously she peered over the swinging door. Eyes wide. Breaths fast and hard. Hands tightly clutched over her chest for protection from the eight-legged terror the size of her fist ... or at least a nickel.
She hated spiders. Petrified of them. Didn’t mind rats, bats, snakes or ants. But spiders could send the fear of God into her faster than just about anything ... at least anything she had encountered in her life so far.
Nervously, she nibbled the flesh at the side of her left thumb for a moment before glimpsing down at Boo-Boo who was sitting near her feet. The dog’s big brown eyes gazed up at Jewels searching for a clue: should she seek cover or jump up and plant a consoling juicy dog kiss on her?
Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) Page 8
