Priced to Kill

by Margaret Evans

  On the edge of town, the pair met in a small diner where they thought no one would know them. Had they thought further on the matter beforehand, the anonymity of a bigger town or even a city might have been a better choice.

  “Did you find it yet?”

  “The thrift shop?”

  “No, the North Pole.”

  She leveled what she hoped was a steely look at him.

  “I work for a living, you know.”

  “And?”

  “I found the shop. Don’t worry. I’ll check it out for you tomorrow and let you know if any quilts are there. I can’t be too nosey, though, or the wind will get up.”

  “Nobody knows anything. There’s no wind to get up. We just need to find it and destroy the last of the evidence. Then nobody will ever know anything. And nobody will care about us.”

  “As I said, I’ll let you know what I find. Be patient.”

  “You better find it.”

  They drove in separate cars and would not connect again until she had something to report.

  She went back to her job in Raging Ford.

  He went to a movie in Duluth.

  The young lady who had waited on them was concerned with their attitude that had looked furtive to her. Maybe she had watched too much television or seen too many movies, but there it was. She reported to her boss what she’d seen.

  “Oh, my,” said Brandy, owner of the diner. “If I had a buck for everyone who ate here who looked ‘furtive,’ I’d be rich and retired by now.”

  “But I think I know one of them. I’ve seen that woman before somewhere here in town. I think she works in one of the smaller shops.”

  Brandy laughed.

  “Thanks for telling me, but I think they’re okay.”

  “I’m telling you, something isn’t right. I know what I saw.”

  “Okay,” Brandy said, finally. “Let’s keep this to ourselves for now, but let me know the next time you see them.”

  By late afternoon, Laura dragged herself out of bed. She felt a little better and thought that maybe she had a bug and should at the very least, close the shop for the remainder of the day so no one else would catch it. Maybe she’d even gotten it from that store robber from the previous day. In any event, her dizziness had left and she drank some ginger ale with two Advil, hoping it would settle her stomach and make her headache go away.

  Then she dressed and went downstairs to check the stock in the backroom and make sure everything in the shop was shipshape for the next day. Any time she went near any of the quilts, Isabella jumped up and hissed at her.

  And in her confused state, she believed she finally got the message. Isabella wanted her to look into the history of the quilts. Maybe there was something important about them that she should know before she did anything else, like selling them.

  Laura started by calling the estate agent who had sold the lot to her, but the agent was out at another sale and her partner helped to look up the information. He emailed Laura a list of the estates’ names that were included in the entire sale. Whether or not they included quilts, he couldn’t say. She would have to call back and check with the agent herself on that level of detail.

  She pulled out her laptop, printed the list, and went to the Internet. She thought she was lucky when she found the actual estate sale advertisements for several of the names, still online, as they listed only major items that were to be included in the sale. Three mentioned hand-made quilts.

  Better than nothing, she thought, and took another drink of ginger ale, her feet up on her father’s La-Z-Boy, some dizziness returning and her stomach cramping again. She stood to stretch her limbs, scratched the arms that were still a bit itchy, and looked out the back window of her apartment and got a shock. Her old silver Civic was parked two doors down in the alley behind the row of shops. Nobody ever forgets their first car. She recognized it this time from the dent in the roof.

  fifteen

  The man pushed the pause button on the remote for his new big screen television and took the call.

  “Why are you calling me to tell me the shop was closed?” he asked in annoyance that she had bothered him just to tell him something silly. All shops had hours, and it was now evening. In these small towns, it was the norm for stores to close early; there would be little business after dinner to justify the overhead of staying open.

  “Because the shop is closed and I promised you yesterday I would go check it out.”

  She felt angry waves over the phone.

  “Can’t you read posted hours? I don’t want you to call me unless and until you’ve been inside the shop and know something.”

  “I can’t. I mean the shop is closed. Closed as in out of business. Looks like it’s been closed for a long time. Grass is growing in the parking lot. I looked inside. It’s empty and dusty.”

  After a silence that made her even more uncomfortable, he spoke.

  “Call that estate agent back. No—wait. Maybe there’s more than one thrift shop in that town.”

  “It’s a pretty small town. It’s not likely.”

  “Are you calling me stupid? Go ask and search or do whatever you have to do, but find an open thrift shop in that brainless town without making any problems about it!”

  He clicked off on his phone and rubbed a hand over his face. What more could go wrong, he wondered. But he stopped himself from these negative thoughts because he wanted nothing jinxed at this point. So far, everything had gone as it should, except for this one gigantic elephant, and he was so close—this close—to getting away scot free. He just had to find that elephant…and destroy it.

  Laura dragged herself to the medical clinic on Thursday morning when she didn’t feel much better. Her shop remained closed. The rash on her arms was worse and, while the dizziness had faded, her stomach was still cramping and she hadn’t eaten a thing. She was lucky that Dr. Colin Anderson was on duty, as he always paid her special attention, much to Connor’s chagrin, she knew. But he was a good doctor.

  “How’s everything in general lately?” he asked, looking at her distressed face, bent over body in the chair, arms crossed over her stomach, scratching her arms.

  “Oh, fine.”

  “And you were kidnapped by a crazy man a few weeks ago and locked in a mausoleum, and that’s fine?”

  She gave him a small smile and shook her head.

  “Everything’s good.”

  “And you’re here why?”

  “I don’t feel so good. My arms are itchy.”

  She held out her arms for him to see the tiny rash that had developed.

  “This looks like topical dermatitis of some kind. When did it show up?”

  She explained about handling the quilts that had all just come from the dry cleaners.

  “Probably just a reaction to some of the dry cleaning chemicals. I can give you some cortisone cream that’s stronger than over-the-counter brands that may help. Anything else wrong?”

  “Yeah, I got a little dizzy and my stomach hurts.” She was trying not to think about the hours she hadn’t been open for business and made no sales as a result. She was trying not to think about the tax returns that weren’t getting any closer to being done. It was hard to feel good about any of it.

  “You may have a bug. Eat light and take it easy for a couple of days. You’ve heard of the B.R.A.T. diet, right? Bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast? Stick with that for a few days. Laura, you have to take better care of yourself and not do too much, in spite of this being the tax season; although I have to admit you do have a rather large support system here in town. Just take it easy for a while. You should feel better. If you’re not better in a couple of days, come back and we’ll run some tests.”

  And she felt even worse when she stopped to pick up her prescription at the pharmacy four blocks from her shop. Her old Civic w
as parked in the pharmacy parking lot two aisles over from her new Ford just outside the dry cleaners.

  When she got back to her apartment, Laura called the police department to see if they could find out who had bought her old Civic. She was forwarded to Corporal Mo Sanchez. It turned out that it had been sold to a woman named Willow Wright, who was new to the area. Wright had given the car dealer a temporary address until she could find permanent residence. She’d paid cash for the car. Sanchez gave her no other information, but he told Laura they would look further into her background, and she was to do nothing and not to worry. He didn’t add it was on strict instructions from his sergeant.

  Not to worry. Yeah. How was she supposed to do that? She was sick since she’d touched the new quilts. Her father’s gun was still at the police station following the robbery attempt, and someone had bought her old car and it was showing up all over town in the same places where she was. And the name Willow Wright. Where had she heard it before?

  Wait—Wasn’t that the name of Erica’s new sales person at the florist next door?

  How on earth could Laura be expected not to go next door and check out this new sales person? After all, her friend Erica’s life could be in danger…maybe. Wait—Why would Laura even think that? Was she even thinking straight? If the car did now belong to Willow Wright, then that would explain why it was parked nearby during shop hours. But it didn’t explain why the car kept showing up on the roads where Laura drove or in the parking lots of the same stores where Laura shopped.

  Or did it?

  After all, Raging Ford was an awfully small town. Was she getting paranoid about this? She figured at the very least, as soon as she felt better, she should go next door and meet this Willow Wright.

  But it grew hard to think about all this, especially with the mixed up thoughts she was having. Laura’s head began spinning, and for once, she took the doctor’s advice. She lay down and fell asleep.

  While Laura slept, Connor was hard at work at the Raging Ford police station, dealing with his own issues. He shut the blinds on the windows lining his office and took a moment for the privacy he always sought, holding his head in his hands and shutting his eyes, a posture he’d seen his father take on many occasions, especially during times of great stress. He had just received a call from his boss, Police Chief Arthur Mallory, who gave him the bad news they were losing another position on the Raging Ford police department staff.

  He gave Connor the decision and made no suggestions on who should go but apologized he wasn’t able to do more about it. He had tried, he said. He had argued, he said. They had promised that next year would be different with a new budget. State and county coffers were slowly growing with the steady housing and economic recovery. Who knew what next year would bring?

  It left Fitzpatrick sick. It made absolutely no sense to him that he should have to give up an officer to Mapleton, a town smaller than Raging Ford. He knew the stats; their crime rate was actually lower, but their tax base was slightly bigger. It would now be virtually impossible to get all the shifts covered, and with the limits on overtime, it would now be beyond that realm.

  For now, he would have to fake out the union to cover the gaps himself. If the union found out, there’d be hell to pay and they’d instantly go over budget, which meant other things on the force would suffer. If the union found out, it would also hit the papers and the fan, and then someone would have to do something about it, whether they wanted to or not. In the meantime, he would have to run some shifts without backup, and they would need to call dispatch to pull someone from another town or state police off the highways. It left no time for sick leave or vacation. His staff was now below skeleton. What were they thinking?

  He sat up straight, ran his fingers through his hair, pushed back his chair and stood up. It was not time yet to make any decisions or call a staff meeting; it was time to talk with Harry Kovacs.

  sixteen

  Fitzpatrick grabbed a sandwich from the machine in the break room, snagged a water bottle from the fridge, and that was his lunch on the way to see Harry. He pulled into a parking space that was more in front of Laura’s shop than Harry’s. The windows of Second Treasures were dark and the closed sign was turned outward. He took a moment to peek inside but saw nothing and figured she was working on tax returns as the season was starting.

  The barber shop had two customers, but Harry spotted something wrong the moment the good Sergeant Connor Fitzpatrick stepped inside, pulled off his hat and smiled a hello to everyone.

  “You take a seat over there, Sergeant. I’m almost done with these two.”

  “What do you mean, you’re almost done, Harry?” the man in the farthest seat complained. “I just got here.”

  “Yes, Bill. But you have very little hair I can do much with, so it won’t take long.”

  The other customer laughed, and Bill, being a good old boy from the town, took it well.

  “You’ll find my satisfaction with your service in your tip, Mr. Kovacs,” he said, winking at Connor, who waited a mere eight minutes for his time alone with Harry.

  With the door locked and the shop closed, they retired to Harry’s man-cave in the back room behind the barbershop.

  Connor always enjoyed this place. It was a comfortable, masculine, everything-a-man-could-want-at-his-fingertips type of room. Beth was kind enough to make sure it was cleaned every now and then beyond the sweeping that Harry did to keep the cut hair out of it, and Harry made sure it was always well stocked with beer and pop in the clear glass fridge.

  A big comfortable couch and Harry’s second favorite easy chair sat in front of a big screen TV where he and his brothers sometimes watched the Vikings’ games if Beth had friends over upstairs. Back in the corner behind a curtain was a double bed where Connor had often crashed as a teenager when he was angry with the world, and now as a police officer when the snow was too heavy to drive back to his apartment in Duluth at the end of his day.

  Harry pulled two black cherry soft drinks from the fridge, opened them both and handed one to Connor, taking a seat opposite him in his easy chair.

  “Kick your shoes off for a few minutes, Connor. Put your feet up on the couch. You know we make our own rules here.”

  Fitzpatrick took the can of pop, nodded to Harry, and drank half of it. He left his shoes on but stretched his legs out across the floor and leaned back against the cushions. Looked around the comfortable, pleasantly darkened room. Checked out the pool table in the other far corner with fond memories.

  “Talk to me,” Harry said.

  “You know, I always hope that one day I can make a place like this for people who need a place to go and where someone whom they can trust will listen.”

  “I didn’t do this with exactly that purpose in mind. It came about when I wanted to get away from my teen-aged daughter and her friends, the smell of nail polish, and all that music and noise!”

  Harry grew silent, waiting for Connor to share.

  “Mallory just called. We lost another officer position, this time to Mapleton.”

  “What? Is he insane? You can’t cover everything with what you have! You know I’ve never liked the man.”

  “Mallory’s okay. He’s trying—”

  “You mean he says he’s trying. He acts nice most of the time, but there’s something about him I just plain don’t trust.” He kept it to himself that his brothers agreed.

  Connor was silent a moment before speaking again. He drank the other half of the soda, held the empty can in his hands on his chest, stared at it thoughtfully.

  “And Brianna’s pregnant again. She just told me.”

  “So you’re down a second field officer. I wish I had some clout over the police department’s budget, but it’s a separate thing. Well, you’re never short of plans and schemes, Connor. What will it be this time?”

  “Cheating the union. Covering
the gaps myself without clocking.”

  Harry shook his head. He was familiar with unions.

  “You’re too wise a man to fiddle with the unions.”

  “Wise? I’m not even 28 until next month.”

  “Yes,” Harry said, smiling. “St. Patrick’s Day is around the corner, isn’t it? I remember you thinking that the town parade was to celebrate your birthday. Your parents didn’t have the heart to tell you it wasn’t until you were older.”

  “My brother Ian did. He called me stupid.”

  Harry waved away the comment.

  “That’s sibling stuff. You don’t have to be old to be wise, and you are very wise for your age.”

  “Harry, I don’t know what else to do. I’ve got two rookies, a pregnant officer who’s usually my backup, and a bunch of other officers, not one of whom deserves to be shipped to another town. We’re all part of a well-oiled unit.”

  “Yeah,” Harry said thoughtfully stroking his chin. “First they chop six off with no promise of return—just an old-fashioned R.I.F.—and then they tell you Sven would only be gone for six months and you’d have him back, and that never happened. Same thing with Thompson and Beauregard. What do you think’s going to happen this time?”

  Connor shrugged.

  “Let me poke around a little and see if I can find out who’s behind this. It’s a damned silly thing to do, but you do know there are a few folks in Mapleton who make more money than you and I do together, and that’s all it could be about. Some spoiled woman with lots of jewelry or a guy with a fancy car both wanting more patrols on their street, or something like that. Let me do some looking and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it, although it may not help me much.”

  Connor straightened and rose, set down his empty can on the side table, put on his hat. “I noticed Laura’s shop is closed. She’s busy with tax returns, I guess.”