Cunning Attractions: Squeaky Clean Mysteries, Book 12

by Christy Barritt

  How could I say no to my brother? A small part of me would always feel guilty because of what had happened to him as a child. And that guilt would push me to make retribution by appeasing him in every way possible. He’d been kidnapped. While I’d been watching him. And he’d been gone from my life—no matter how horrible my adolescent years had been at times—for years.

  I felt like I needed to make it up to him. To make things right. To ensure he didn’t suffer anymore.

  But something wasn’t right with him now.

  I narrowed my eyes, trying to pinpoint what was different about my brother. Either he was depressed, he’d taken chill to a whole new level, or . . . “Tim, are you on something?”

  He blinked and made a face. Finally, he turned toward me, a bewildered look in his eyes. “What? No, of course not.”

  “Tim . . .” I didn’t want to question him, but I’d seen people on drugs before. Tim had all the markers for it.

  “What?”

  “You’re not acting like yourself. What are you taking?” And why couldn’t the people in my family get their acts together? At least my father seemed to be doing well after struggling for years with alcoholism. But it always seemed to be something with someone. I’d had my turn, if I were to be honest.

  “It’s no big deal.”

  Anger flared inside me. “Drugs are a big deal.”

  “You’re so uptight, Sis. Just chill. I’m a big boy.”

  “And I’m your big sister. How do you think I’m going to act?” I sounded like a shrew, and I didn’t like it. But I’d lost my ability to control the emotion in my voice.

  “You’re more worried about this than you were about me when I was kidnapped.”

  My jaw dropped open. A mix of emotions punched me in the gut. Guilt. Outrage. Regret. And that was exactly what he’d been going through.

  “That’s not true, Tim. You have no idea what we went through. My childhood ended the day you disappeared. Mom and Dad were never the same. Never. We thought about you every minute of every day. Your bedroom was practically a shrine as we hoped, day after day, that we’d find you. Your room stayed like that until Mom died and Dad was forced to sell the place because he couldn’t pay the mortgage anymore.”

  That hit him somehow. He flinched ever so subtly.

  “You’re going to abandon me again?” he finally said.

  It was another sucker punch. Not quite as strong this time, but it was enough to make me want to double over.

  “You’re trying to manipulate me, Tim.”

  “I just need a place to stay.”

  “You can’t do drugs if you’re staying in my place.”

  “I won’t. It was just once or twice. The hitchhiking thing was stressful. So were the kidney stones. I just needed something to take the edge off. You catch my drift?”

  I’d bet he was lying about that. “I mean it, Tim. You’ve seen what alcohol did to Dad . . .”

  I hadn’t even seen this problem as a distant blip on my radar. My brother taking drugs wasn’t anywhere close to being a concern. Tim had always been kind of flighty and free-spirited. But he’d never expressed his feelings about his kidnapping like this before. It had always been with kindness and compassion.

  Were the drugs making his real feelings come out? Had he suppressed them this whole time?

  “I just need some help until I can get back on my feet. A place to stay. That’s all I’m asking. Please.”

  I couldn’t deny my brother a safe place to fall. We all needed that, didn’t we? I’d just keep my eyes on him and, if there were any signs of trouble, I’d deal with them then and there.

  I stood. “Come on up. You can stay at my old place.”

  He rose to his feet. “Your old place?”

  “I got married,” I told him, stepping toward the door.

  “You didn’t invite me?” He had the nerve to actually look offended.

  “You were hitchhiking across the country with no cell phone,” I reminded him. “It’s not like we planned the ceremony in advance. What was I supposed to do?”

  He shrugged, dragging his feet as he followed me inside. “Beats me. You could have tried a little harder, I’d say.”

  “Tim . . .” I warned. He was really pushing my buttons today, and I wasn’t handling it well.

  He raised his hands in surrender. “I get it. You don’t have to talk about it anymore. Now, can I just go take a load off?”

  “Sure thing.”

  I led him upstairs and opened the door to my old place. As I stepped inside, I realized it smelled stuffy and closed up. I’d been using it less and less frequently.

  I really needed to give up my lease. Why was I having trouble letting go? It was so silly. Being with Riley was everything I’d dreamed about. Yet letting go of my past was harder than I’d thought.

  “I’ll let you do your thing. I’ll be across the hall if you need me.”

  Chapter Nine

  Early the next morning, Patton Patrick called me back and informed me his name was actually Patrick Patton. I’d told him, when I left the message, that I was calling concerning Greg Borski.

  Apparently Borski was his nemesis.

  “You have dirt on him?” the man asked, his voice too nasal to sound tough.

  My eyebrows shot up at how quickly he got to the point. “I’m looking for the dirt, actually.”

  “If you find it, let me know.”

  “What’s your beef with him?” I pulled the sheets up, making the bed. This was something new for me. I hadn’t realized I’d been such a slob before. Living with someone else and trying to honor their preferences could be exhausting. Still, I wanted to respect Riley’s desires. That meant being a little neater than my nature desired.

  “He owes me a lot of money. I invested in his restaurant, and he promised to pay me back within the first three years. I haven’t seen a dime of it yet. Meanwhile, the place seems like it’s successful. I don’t know where all the money has gone.”

  “Have you talked to Borski?” I fluffed a pillow and tossed it against the headboard.

  “He won’t call me back. I’ve stopped by, but he’s never available. I have no idea where he’s living now. If you talk to him, let me know, because I’d really like to have a long conversation with him.”

  Greg Borski was beginning to seem more and more like someone I needed to check out further.

  After I got off the phone and finished making the bed, I sat down and did a quick Internet search on Borski. I was amazed at the results that came up. He was an award-winning chef. His food was called innovative. His restaurant had been featured in several magazines.

  The man seemed to have everything going for him.

  So why was he having so many financial troubles?

  I needed to find out.

  I’d seen a key card on his desk. It was from a hotel in a rough part of Norfolk. I’d assumed that someone else was staying there. But I wanted to check it out.

  I pulled up there ten minutes later. This definitely wasn’t known as a desirable area of town. No, it was old and not well maintained. The motel had siding falling off and trash lurking against the edges of the building.

  I couldn’t picture Borski staying here. But it was worth checking out.

  I put my car in park and leaned back, taking a sip of my coffee. Stakeouts were never my favorite thing. They seemed so exciting on TV, but in real life they were usually a waste of time. Or they seemed like a waste of time for the first five hours. Only the last ten minutes really meant anything.

  I glanced at the time. It was only 9:30. I assumed Borski would need to get to the restaurant soon to begin prepping for the day. Wasn’t the morning when deliveries happened? When veggies were cut and soups were started?

  I’d never worked in a restaurant myself, but that made sense to me.

  The day was sunny but brisker than it had been earlier in the week. This was the kind of weather that beckoned a pumpkin spice latte. Later, I promised myself.r />
  I stared at the faded red doors lining the two floors of the place. Black metal railing prevented anyone from falling off the second story. Crooked numbers graced each door. At the far end, a cleaning lady pushed her cart around the corner.

  I didn’t even know which room door to look at, I realized. I didn’t know which car was his. I didn’t know for sure that he was here.

  This could be a colossal waste of time. I’d give it until eleven, I decided. Then I had other things to do.

  At 10:30, I hit pay dirt. Borski exited one of the rooms on the second floor.

  Was he living here? Why?

  I’d have to sort that out later.

  Borski was wearing his trademark bow tie again, along with tight jeans and a button-up shirt. He climbed into an oversized pickup truck—not what I’d expected—and began to pull away.

  I put my car into drive so I could follow. I assumed he’d be headed back to The Crispy Biscuit. To my surprise, he turned toward Virginia Beach instead. And he kept going. And going.

  This was going to be a total waste of time, wasn’t it? Knowing my luck, he was going to a Rogaine specialist or some kind of fitness boot camp.

  Despite that, I kept going. I’d already come this far.

  The suburban roads surrounded by neighborhoods and shopping centers gradually turned into country roads surrounded by farms and cornfields. If we went much farther out into the middle of nowhere, Borski would definitely notice me behind him, especially since the road was otherwise empty.

  Finally, he slowed and turned down a gravel road. A sign reading “Farmer Farms” graced the curb. This was going to be harder to keep an eye on him without being spotted.

  But I was determined to do it.

  I pulled over into the next driveway, which just happened to be the entrance to a pumpkin patch. Working quickly, I parked my car in the gravel parking lot. I resisted the urge to buy some pumpkin ice cream or a pumpkin—especially one of those oddly shaped purple ones—or even take a hayride. All those things made me want a redo of the best moments of my childhood.

  Praying I didn’t get caught, I climbed out of my car. For just a moment, I listened to the happy sounds of school kids running through the pumpkin patch in the background. I heard the whistle of a teacher trying to get her students’ attention. I heard more tires rumpling down the gravel road.

  Against all of my better instincts, I cut through a field of dried corn.

  I wasn’t sure what I was thinking. I’d seen horror movies about this stuff, movies that included catatonic children with disturbing eyes and black-and-white clothing. But I did it anyway.

  I stayed focused as I moved, which allowed less time for worst-case scenarios to flash through my mind.

  Finally, I reached the other side.

  I peered between the stalks, feeling very . . . stalkerish.

  But I did have a perfect view of Borski. He was standing outside a barn, talking to another man. After a few minutes of chitchat, he carried out various bags of what I assumed were vegetables and put them in the back of his truck.

  Interesting.

  Maybe they didn’t take deliveries at the restaurant. After all, the backside of the building was strangely configured, being that it was actually two buildings mashed together to become a restaurant. There were no delivery bays. Besides, if there were, someone might see the industrial freezer and leak it to the press.

  Knowing that, maybe Borski picked up the vegetables himself. That seemed very persnickety and Borski-like.

  I watched as he slipped the vegetables into awaiting boxes in the back of his truck.

  A few minutes later, he slammed the door to his truck and pulled away.

  Weird. That was weird.

  I stepped back before anyone spotted me in the field.

  I needed to get back to my car.

  I took several steps back through the cornfield when I paused.

  What was that?

  Were the dry leaves simply rustling together? Or had that been the sound of someone else out here?

  No, that would be crazy. I had no reason for anyone to follow me. Especially not cultish children with disturbing eyes and Amish outfits. I’d done stupid things before. Stupid things that had given people a good reason to hate me and want to harm me.

  But not this time. This time I was innocent.

  I glanced around quickly. As I did so, I lost all sense of direction. What way had I been heading?

  I couldn’t remember.

  I looked at the sun, hoping it would give me guidance. Nature people would be able to look at the sky and know exactly which way to go. Unfortunately, I wasn’t one of those nature people.

  Which way, Gabby?

  My lungs tightened as panic threatened to erupt.

  That way, I decided. I’d been headed that way.

  I wish I didn’t feel uncertain as I stepped in my chosen direction.

  As I did, another twig snapped in the distance.

  A squirrel, I told himself. It was just a squirrel.

  I didn’t convince myself.

  I took off in a run.

  The corn stalks seemed endless.

  Or maybe I’d gotten turned around. What if I was headed farther into the heart of the massive farm instead of back toward my car?

  Panic threatened to consume me, but I couldn’t let it. Finally, I slowed long enough to hear children. Happy children. To hear a tractor cranking up.

  I was headed in the right direction. I had to be.

  Follow the noise, Gabby. Follow the noise.

  And reward yourself with pumpkin ice cream.

  Besides, you can always use your cell phone to call for help.

  All wouldn’t be lost. Mostly me, though. Mostly, I wouldn’t be lost.

  My meditative moment of wisdom made me feel better. For a moment.

  Until I ran into a spider’s web.

  I swatted at my face, trying to combat potential arachnids that could be crawling on me like eight-legged freaks.

  I suppressed a scream—but only because there were innocent children close by.

  And I ran faster. And faster.

  Finally, I emerged from Nightmare on Corn Street.

  My car. I was at my car!

  Thank You, Jesus!

  My hands continued to flap when I felt something in my hair. Something big.

  I held my breath, praying it wasn’t a spider. Instead, I pulled out a dried cornhusk or leaf or something. I didn’t hold onto it long enough to find out.

  As I continued to feel imaginary insects all over me, a bus full of school kids pulled in right as I stepped out, my hands still flailing in the air and a leaf caught in my hair.

  Uncountable kids had their faces pressed to the window, looking on in horror.

  To makes matters worse, I’d worn a flannel shirt and jeans today.

  I looked like a scarecrow come to life, didn’t I?

  Before I could recover, I saw kids raise their cell phones. Cell phones? Since when did school-aged kids carry phones with them?

  It didn’t really matter. I’d probably just become an overnight Youtube sensation . . . again.

  I couldn’t let an opportunity pass me by. So once I was in my car, I swung by the farm next door to hopefully talk to the farmer there. Three pumpkins now rested in my back seat, and I checked the mirror to make sure no ice cream lined my lips. I was good.

  As I climbed out of my car, I glanced around one more time. I didn’t see anyone watching me, and I really wished I could shake that feeling. I also wished I could stop humming “Somebody’s Eyes.”

  There was absolutely no proof that anyone was following me. Maybe all my past investigations were making me feel a little crazy. It was the only explanation I could think of.

  I stepped out and glanced around the farm. Earlier I’d only been focused on watching Borski, so I’d ignored the farm itself. But I was surprised to see that it looked rather dirty. There was lots of clutter against the barn, almost like a
mini junkyard. The house in the distance looked old, and it also had clutter around it. Four broken-down cars were parked between the two buildings.

  Interesting. Clean eating didn’t mean clean farming, I guessed.

  The same man who’d spoken with Borski approached me as he was leaving the barn. Something about his body language instantly told me that I couldn’t dive in to this using only the truth. He wouldn’t tell me things just to tell me.

  I needed a cover.

  “Can I help you?” The man was thirtyish, with a ball cap and a sweaty white shirt, dirty jeans, and work boots.

  “I’m looking to buy some produce.” That seemed like a good start.

  “You have a restaurant?”

  “No, but I’m having . . . a harvest party. I need to add the ‘harvest’ to the ‘party,’ if you know what I mean.” I did a little shimmy with my shoulders, which I realized in retrospect was a horrible idea.

  Lame, Gabby. Lame. And slightly inappropriate.

  He stared at me a moment before nodding and tugging at his John Deere ball cap. “Well, I’ve got the harvest, as you call it. How’d you hear about me?”

  “From . . . Jenny.”

  “Jenny? Jenny from Jenny’s Produce?”

  “The one and only.” I had no idea who Jenny was.

  He nodded. “Great gal.”

  “Absolutely. So, could I get a price list from you, by chance?” I needed to change the subject from Jenny before I got caught.

  “I can run and get you one of those. I’ll need some advance notice to make sure I have enough. Crops aren’t as strong this year due to that frost we had back in September. When is this party?”

  “Two weeks.”

  He nodded again. “That should work.”

  “Fabulous. I’ve been looking for some all-organic farmers for a while now, so I’m thrilled to find you.”

  He stared at me. A weird stare.

  I cringed and almost did a shoulder shimmy again as a nervous twitch.

  That could not become my nervous twitch.

  What had I said that was wrong? Had I given myself away somehow?

  My mind scrambled to find answers.