by Judy Clemens
She was in heaven.
Keeping the food away from the keyboard, she typed in Willie Yonkers’ name. Lots of hits, and they were all positive—working with a local Habitat for Humanity project, a celebration of his and his wife’s 25th anniversary—mustn’t have been a recent event, since Evan had said she’d left him—and his son Brad winning some big college debate. His daughter, Tara, was homecoming queen—wearing a dress Casey wouldn’t let her own daughter be caught dead in, Willie had been appointed to the town council, and he had made a top ten list of “best small businesses in north-central Kansas.” Business for what? Ah. Nothing even close to trucking. Flowers.
Flowers?
Not just a nursery. Fancy stuff. Orchids. Trees from South America. Even some special moss that was supposed to level off acidity in the soil. Things you couldn’t get down at the local greenhouse. According to the testimonials Hollywood folks and television evangelists landscaped their properties with plants and trees from Yonkers’ place, and there were several photos with NBA stars, politicians, and even one late night TV personality. In every one of the pictures, Yonkers stood smiling beside the famous customer, his expression smug, with a visible sense of entitlement. Casey hated him on sight.
Yonkers’ expertise, naturally, led to one last article. Willie Yonkers’ residence had a prestigious spot on the region’s home and garden tour. Casey clicked on the images of his home to enlarge them. Inside shots of amazing interior design. Outside shots highlighting trees, flowerbeds, and fountains. Even one aerial photo. Wow. Quite the opposite of poor Pat Parnell’s place. But then, Yonkers could afford the help of gardeners, housekeepers, and a whole slew of underlings Casey couldn’t even imagine. Employees hired with the money Yonkers made by blackmailing people like Pat Parnell.
Yonkers obviously enjoyed his position in the community. He had his fingers into a little bit of everything, and somehow always came out on top, looking good. Where were the articles about his destroyed marriage, or the broken relationships with his children? Not newsworthy, apparently. Or else he’d paid to keep them out of the papers.
Casey drummed her fingers on the desk. Had Evan gotten too close? Did he know Yonkers was involved? She pushed her fingers against her temples, trying to remember exactly what she and Evan had talked about before… She shook herself away from the horrible images of the crash. What had he been saying?
Willie and Evan had spitting contests in first grade, Willie had more money than he knew what to do with, Willie’s family hated him… But there had been no anger. Nothing to give even a hint that Evan had caught Yonkers in a criminal scheme. If anything, there was envy, and…admiration.
Casey closed her eyes and pictured Evan’s information. She wished now she’d brought it with her. He’d matched the names to the photos—he probably knew some, if not most, of the drivers. Perhaps he’d seen some of them on the road—truckers run into each other at truck stops, diners, rest areas—especially if they frequent the roads in the same general area. Pat Parnell had even mentioned seeing Evan. Most likely Evan knew some of the drivers weren’t supposed to be behind the wheel anymore and wondered what was happening. He’d found all their disqualifications. Knew they were driving illegally.
She thought about the manifests, all clipped together in a neat stack. Those papers—the physical papers themselves—were different. They, as compared to his notes and even the photos, were newly copied, all on the same pristine white paper. That’s when she realized—Evan had just discovered the fake names. The copied papers hadn’t had time to get bent and dirty and fingerprinted because they were brand new.
So why hadn’t Evan told anyone? Why was the information still squirreled away in his truck?
And this time? I’m staying for a good long while. I’ve been working my tail off and I need a break.
Evan’s words about home came back to her, as if he were sitting right there in the room. He’d known he finally had them cold, and he was going to turn them in. The problem was…someone else had known it, too.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“So you’re not even going to stay till Tom gets back?” Death said. “Tell him how helpful his computer was? He is pretty cute.”
“He’s also pretty married. Besides, in case you’ve completely lost your mind. I’m not into guys at the moment.” She’d been a little interested in Eric VanDiepenbos the week before, and look how that had turned out.
Oh, Reuben.
She went suddenly breathless and leaned against a tree, several feet from the Southwest parking lot.
“Yup, there he comes,” Death said.
Tom pulled his pickup into his spot and went to his door, opening it with his key. A few seconds later he poked his head back out, looked around, then went back in.
“Too bad,” Death said. “He seems like a nice guy.”
“A nice family guy.”
“Such a stickler for details.”
“Yeah. Details that will keep me going to one place and not the other when I finally die.”
Death gave an exasperated groan. “Are you still going on about that? Dying?”
“Until you give me what I want.”
“Are you sure you still want that?”
Casey looked at Death, then at the ground, then at the blue sky peeking through the trees.
“What I thought,” Death said. “Now, what’s next on the agenda?”
Casey watched Death walk purposefully toward the road, and followed. As they picked their way through the trees she explained what she’d discovered.
“So Evan did tell somebody,” Death said. “Somebody knew he’d found out what was going on.”
“I don’t think he found out all of it. He didn’t seem to realize Willie Yonkers was involved. In fact, I think Willie Yonkers is the one he told.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He respected him. Yonkers was on the town council, had a flourishing business, lots of money…heck, he was even a better spitter than Evan. Plus, he was from Evan’s hometown. He liked him. He trusted him.” A bitter taste filled Casey’s mouth. It was so hard to know whom to trust.
“We need to go see Willie Yonkers,” Death said.
“Yes,” Casey said. “I’m afraid we do.”
They got to the end of the wooded area and stopped.
“How do you propose we do that?” Death raised an eyebrow and stuck out a thumb, as if hitching a ride.
“I don’t suppose Sheryl’s mom is still here.” She walked far enough along the road to see the Southwest parking lot. “Nope. I guess we could borrow Wendell’s truck again, although I really hate to.”
“After walking all the way back into town. Your feet have got to be hurting.”
They were.
“How about Tom’s truck? I’m sure he’d loan it to you.”
Casey looked back toward the building. Should she involve him any more? But then, it was just a truck she was asking to borrow.
“Okay. We’ll ask him.”
“Good for you.”
They made their way back through the trees and up to Tom’s door. He didn’t hide his surprise. “Back again?”
“Another favor.”
“Shoot.”
“May I borrow your truck?”
He regarded her for a few moments. “How long will you be gone?”
She calculated in her head. Forty minutes, Evan had said. With her driving it would be more like fifty. So, basically two hours of driving time, plus finding and talking to Willie Yonkers. “Three hours? Four?”
He glanced at his watch. “So you’ll be back by five?”
“Yes.” Her voice sounded more confident than she felt.
He held out the keys and dropped them into her hand. “Do I want to know where you’re going?”
“No.”
“Okay.” He gave a little grin. “Try to bring her back in one piece. I assume you know how to drive?”
“Uh, yeah.” If he only knew her history with vehicle
s.
She got in the truck, controlling her shaking hands, and was able to back out and leave without stalling, even with Tom watching.
“Score one for Casey Maldonado!” Death cheered when they were on the road. “Or, uh, Casey Jones! Whichever you are today!”
“Don’t start counting too soon.”
Death settled back and pulled out the harmonica. “So, where are we going?”
Casey groaned. “I have no idea. I just wanted to get out of the parking lot.”
“Ooookaaay. Plans?”
“Well, we know he lives in Sedgwick. His business is called Exotic Blooms.”
“Fancy. If not manly.”
“I figure we get to Sedgwick, we can find the shop.”
“And to get to Sedgwick?”
“Has to be west, because we were headed that way when we crashed. So we’ll get on the highway and go that direction.”
Death sighed. “If only Laura Ingalls Wilder could help us. Why do you even keep that phone with you if you’re not going to use it?”
“Because there might come a time when I will.”
“Whatever.”
The highway turned out being easy to find, and within twenty miles they began to see signs for Sedgwick.
“Hmm,” Death said. “You’re smarter than you smell.”
“Look, L’Ankou. The saying is you’re smarter than you look.”
“I know that. It’s just that your smell these days has begun to overpower even your looks. And they ain’t so great, either.”
Casey flinched, and sniffed at her underarm. Was she really that bad? Or did Death just have an extra-sensitive nose?
The exit for Sedgwick loomed up on the right, and Casey took it. This area was a bit more populated than Blue Lake, which made her nervous, but nobody should recognize her here—except for Dixon, Westing, their guys, and perhaps even Yonkers himself. Yikes.
She took a road that led to less built-up land and pulled to the side of the road, where there was a deep ditch. She clambered down to the deepest part and scooped up some mud, using it to cover up most of the numbers on the pickup’s license plate. She didn’t want to take any chance of the guys seeing this truck and tracing it back to Tom. Not that she was planning on running into them, but she was now traveling on their turf.
She found a rag under the seat and wiped her hands.
“Muddy hands,” Death said. “Perfect with your outfit.”
“We are going to a nursery,” Casey said.
Death laughed.
License plate obscured, Casey turned around and drove back toward town. “Think I can stop at a gas station?”
“One near the highway. They see so many people they’ll have less of a chance of remembering you. Even in your present state.”
“Will you stop already? I know I look—and smell—like crap, all right? It doesn’t help to have you going on about it all the time.”
“Sorry, sorry. Just trying to call it like it is.”
“Well, quit.”
Death was quiet the rest of the way back toward the highway.
Casey scoped out the Shell station, and was glad to see a pay phone and know she still had a quarter left over from Wendell’s money. When the pumps were vacant she pulled up beside the stand. The phone book had been stolen, the metal cover dangling from its chain. This left her with a decision—use up the last of her money to call information, or go inside and risk being seen?
Since she had a full stomach, the decision seemed obvious. She ponied up the necessary change and called information, which put her through to Exotic Blooms.
The woman on the other end of the phone, who identified herself as “Ruby,” was happy to give Casey directions from the highway, but laughed when Casey asked if Mr. Yonkers would be available to talk to her about some special orders. “Mr. Yonkers isn’t involved in the day-to-day work as much as he used to be. But I’ll be happy to help you with anything you need.”
“The person who recommended your nursery suggested I speak directly to him.”
A pause. “Well, I don’t know why they would have said that. I’ve done the ordering here for the past couple of years. Who have you been talking to?”
Casey gave a little laugh, like she was embarrassed. “I don’t want to get them in trouble. I’ll be happy to come by and work with you. In fact, I’d rather do that.”
Ruby sniffed. “That’s fine. I’m here every day—that is, Monday through Saturday.”
“I’ll be by. Thank you. But, um, just to tell my friend I tried, do you have any idea where I might be able to find Mr. Yonkers? Or talk to him?”
Ruby’s voice went just a bit chillier. “Mr. Yonkers doesn’t spend much time here at all anymore. You’d have better luck catching him at home, or on his cell. You do have that number?”
“No, no, I don’t.”
Ruby hesitated. “I’m not supposed to hand it out. But if you want to leave your name and number I’ll have him get back to you.”
“Thank you, but I think I’ll just tell my friend I tried and leave it at that. I’ll be by soon to see if you can help me.”
“And what is your name?”
“Good-bye, then,” Casey said. “See you soon.”
She got back in the truck, pleased she hadn’t needed to go into the gas station, where she would most likely have been videotaped.
“We’re not going to just dance right in, are we?” Death looked concerned.
“Of course not. We may not even go in. I just want to see what I can see.”
“Do you see what I see?” Death sang from the familiar Christmas carol, and proceeded to play it on the electronic keyboard that appeared, which was so long it would have poked Casey, had it been solid. As it was, she shivered.
“Can you move that thing?”
“Oh, sorry.” The keyboard shrank to the size of one a child would play.
“Exotic Blooms is on one side of a shopping center. The usual things—Old Navy, Lowe’s, a Target, maybe. But there should be plenty of parking lot to hide in.”
“Can we get close enough to actually see anything?”
“We’ll try.”
The nursery, when they found it, took up more than its share of the shopping area, with three enormous greenhouses, and rows of plants and trees out toward the road. Behind the greenhouses was a gravel parking lot large enough for the loading and unloading of merchandise, but it was empty, except for a wooden two-wheeled trailer, tilted with its hitch resting on the ground, and lots of nursery-type tools: buckets, hoses, mulch, and pallets of plants. Next to the lot was the back of the next store, with its own loading bays. A semi-trailer was backed up to one of them, and two men stood on the dock going over paperwork. Yonkers must not have had an actual loading bay like the big store, but there was plenty of room for a semi to maneuver in the lot.
Casey parked three rows from the front door and to the left, between an over-sized pickup and a Navigator, with a minivan to her back. Tom’s truck was hidden unless someone would look at it straight on. From this vantage point she could see the entrance to the back lot, as well as anyone going into the store through the customer entrance. She recognized some familiar foliage sitting in rows to the side, and arranged on the sidewalk, but was astounded by the amount of things she couldn’t name.
“It’s a jungle in there,” Death said. “Are you going in?”
“I don’t know yet. I want to scope it out.”
“Don’t have a lot of time if you’re going to get this truck back Tom by five.”
“I know, but that doesn’t mean I want to be stupid about it.”
“Whatever.” Death pulled out the rubber band and twanged it for a few beats before stopping. “You know, it’s hard to get too scared of a guy who sells flowers.”
“That’s not all he’s doing.”
Death shrugged, and continued twanging.
At first Casey could concentrate. Only three people went through the front doors—two came out wit
h purchases, and one went in. No trucks or vehicles of any kind drove into the parking lot. One woman strode back and forth across the store helping customers inside—Ruby?—and one young woman in low-slung jeans and a form-fitting shirt, with her hair piled on top of her head in a ponytail, slouched around the outside, flinging the hose this way and that, chomping gum so hard Casey was surprised her jaw didn’t fall off. The girl turned toward Casey to water a row of waist-high plants with shiny, dark green leaves and bright red blooms, and Casey sucked in her breath. “What time is it?”
Death stopped twanging long enough to say, “Little after three.”
“So that could be her.”
“Who?”
“Yonkers’ daughter. The one Evan wouldn’t let his own daughter go near. What was her name? Tara.”
Death looked at the girl, head tilted to one side. “Sulky, sexy, angry about something. Yeah, could easily be her.”
Casey watched Tara Yonkers as she moved from plant to plant. Perhaps the daughter was the way in, but should she risk it? Let Willie’s girl see her face?
Death began humming along with the rubber band, still playing that Christmas song, stretching the band to change its pitch. Casey tried to ignore the sound. She plugged her right ear with her finger. She held her hand up to the side of her face. She thought about how it would feel to punch Death in the solar plexus.
“Enough! All right! I’ll go in! Just…stop!”
Death regarded her with wide, innocent eyes. “Are you talking to me?”
Casey jumped out of the truck, slammed the door, and stalked toward the store.
The girl looked up as Casey approached. “Help you find something?” It wasn’t convincing. Tara Yonkers obviously didn’t want to help anybody, and her being able to find something in the immense nursery was clearly a crap shoot.
“Your dad. I’d like to talk with him.”
Tara snorted and pelted another plant with a stream of water. “Good luck. I haven’t been able to get him to listen to me for years.”
“So he’s not here?”
“Look, lady, my dad adores this place, but you’d never know it. I’m here more than he is.” She made a gagging sound.
