Tall Pines Mysteries: A Mystery/Suspense Boxed Set

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  I tore one end of the envelope open and peeked inside, then tipped it into my hand. A brass key slid out. I fingered it and examined it closely. The number 926 was engraved in its head.

  The key might have fit a safe deposit box, a locker, or possibly a door.

  I shook the envelope again. Out fluttered a yellowed business card from Manny’s Garage back home. The place had been out of business for over twenty years. An oil change appointment was written on the back—for 1977—and more writing was scribbled in my stepfather’s tight, tiny handwriting on the bottom.

  I clutched the card against my chest and lifted my eyes to the ceiling.

  “Oh, Dad. What the hell did you get yourself into?”

  Chapter 24

  I ordered a couple of turkey club sandwiches and tomato soup from room service for my snoring Romeo and me, then put on my reading glasses and took the card over to the brightest light in the room. Dad’s penmanship was cramped and almost illegible, especially after the card had been dunked in the pool. After scrutinizing it, I made out most of the words, but wasn’t quite sure about the phone number. It didn’t really matter, since I could confirm it on switchboard.com in seconds. I read it aloud.

  “Honeoye First National Bank, prepaid box through 2020. Phone: 716-555-7843. Open only after my death.”

  Raoul had prepaid the safe deposit box through the year 2020? That must’ve cost him a great deal. I quickly figured it may have totaled well over three grand. Back in 1977, that was a lot of money. Unless, of course, you had just met someone who had robbed a bank.

  The phone number started with Western New York’s old area code. I glanced at Quinn, who rolled onto his other side and snorted.

  The bank would be closed now. But tomorrow we’d have to make a trip back to Honeoye to check out the contents of the box.

  Before I could wake Quinn so he wouldn’t sleep through the night and wake up at 4 AM, the phone rang, jolting me out of my seat.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Hollister? Rita Little Newt here.”

  My heart leapt. “Oh! Rita, thanks for calling.”

  “My grandfather said you needed some help from me.” She sounded hesitant and a bit wary.

  “I do.” I explained about my mother, about the two shaggy blond men, and asked her about the silver bear earrings. The description of the men didn’t ring a bell with her, but she wasn’t deterred by it.

  “Those are pretty good sellers. I could check my records if it would help. I’d get names if they paid with credit. Maybe it would jog my memory, too.”

  “Thanks so much, Rita. I really appreciate it.”

  “It’s no trouble at all. Give me a few hours to search through them. Where are you, anyway?”

  “We’re almost up to Lake Placid. Several hours north.”

  “Oh. That’s a bit of a hike. Do you want to come down here again, or do this over the phone?”

  “I’d like to come in person, if that’s okay.”

  We arranged to meet late tomorrow afternoon, which meant my trip down to the bank in Honeoye would have to be early. If we left at seven, we’d reach the bank by eleven, and we could make it back up to Silver Bear by three or four if we pushed it.

  I thanked Rita profusely, and hung up just as the food arrived.

  ***

  Quinn ate his sandwich and half of mine. I polished off the bunch of red grapes I’d ordered for dessert, and finally lay back in bed with him after showing him the key and card, and explaining the plans for tomorrow.

  “What if you mother calls while we’re on the road? We’d be up to five hours from her.”

  I started to dismiss him as a worrywart, but stopped when I realized he had a point. “I’ll still be able to get the cell call, I think. We can call McCann and Jaworski if anything like that comes up.”

  He bunched up his pillows and scooted up against the headboard. “And what’ll you do if there are millions of dollars in that safe deposit box?”

  “I’ll tell the police, of course.” I punched him in the arm. “What did you think? That I’d take the money and run?”

  He looked at the ceiling and wiggled his toes, as if he were considering the idea.

  “Oh, stop.” I pulled the blanket over us and snuggled against him. “C’mon, hon. We’ve gotta get some sleep.”

  He looked at me with a devilish expression. “Sure you don’t want to…”

  I rolled my eyes and laughed. “My God, man. Are you trying to kill me?”

  He started to rub my shoulder, caressing my skin and slowly moving his hand lower. “Just want you to know I could, if you want to.”

  I disengaged his hand and pecked his check. “I know. You’re my super stud, already. Now stop this nonsense and go to sleep.”

  Chapter 25

  We turned off the New York State Thruway and headed south on Route 390. At the Rush exit, we followed 15A south toward Honeoye and after a half hour of driving past green rolling fields and woods, we reached the village and pulled into the bank parking lot.

  I’d fidgeted the whole way, and had finally insisted on driving when I couldn’t take the inactivity anymore. Quinn had tried to distract me with topics unrelated to my mother’s kidnapping and my stepfather’s past. But I’d been poor company.

  I opened the van door to hop out, but Quinn grabbed my hand.

  His eyes filled with compassion. “Honey? You sure you’re ready for this?”

  I gripped the safe deposit box key until my hand hurt. “Hell no. I’m scared to death.” I broke out in a cold sweat, and for a moment the outline of the Quinn’s face swam unfocused before my eyes.

  He squeezed my hand, checking his watch. “Okay. Well, then, we’d better get in there and get it over with if we’re going to make it back in time to meet Rita Little Newt.”

  I straightened and took a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  When we settled into the tiny viewing room with the box, I flipped the metal lid open and expelled a long held breath. A parcel of old documents inhabited most of the space, tied with a piece of thin raffia. A black velvet pouch was tucked into one corner, beside a narrow case. A paper-clipped bunch of newspaper articles lined the bottom, along with an envelope stuffed with black and white photos with saw-toothed edges that looked like they’d been cut with pinking sheers.

  There were no bulging envelopes of cash.

  Quinn reached for the jewelry case, and I grabbed the velvet pouch. My heart pounded as I envisioned emeralds, rubies, and diamonds sparkling inside. Instead, a miniature cameo on a fine silver chain poured into my hand. I held it to the light, admiring it. It was old—definitely antique—but not the type of jewelry I would have expected in the velvet pouch. It swung from my fingers and twisted around, revealing a cramped inscription on the back. I couldn’t read it without my drugstore glasses, which sat in the console of the van.

  Quinn’s case held a fine string of pearls. A folded piece of yellow lined paper tucked inside declared them to be “Grandma Lola’s pearls.” I imagined they were priceless to Raoul, more for sentimental value than anything else.

  “Hmm. I expected something…more,” I said. “There has to be something here. Why would he put all this stuff in a safe deposit box and prepay it for years to come? Why not just pay it like we do, annually?”

  Quinn tucked the pearls back in the box and picked up the envelope of photos. “Maybe his family history was priceless to him.” He flipped through a few old snapshots. “Then again, why would your mom tape the key to the bottom of Ruby’s cage? She must have thought she was hiding something of great value. Something so important she had to keep it from the world. Hell, she couldn’t even leave it at home; she had to bring it with us to the bird show.”

  “It’s a good thing she did. The guys who tossed our house might’ve been looking for it.” I touched the key. “She guarded it as if it were a treasure.”

  Quinn’s eyes lit up. “Or a treasure map. Maybe there’s a map in here somewhere.” He
rooted around in the box, sifting through papers. “After the way she flipped out when we broke down, I’m sure she knew those guys in the white truck were after her. Or after the key.”

  I pulled a few photos from the envelope. Mom and daughters. A large family gathered in front of a white church. Little girls playing in a sandbox. It all looked so innocent. “She might have let her imagination run wild about the key. Maybe she hadn’t looked in the box yet, and thought it would be filled with cash, like we did.”

  Quinn stood up and stretched. “Maybe. We’ll have to go through all of this stuff. But not now.” He checked his watch again. “We’ve gotta go.”

  A sudden wave of pain crashed over me. Tears flooded my eyes and sobs wracked my body. I fell forward onto the table and wailed, surprising myself even more than Quinn.

  “Marcella? Honey, what’s wrong?”

  “I… miss… my mother. Where is she? Why don’t they call?”

  The bravado I’d worn like a Kevlar vest tore apart in one huge gush of tears. Quinn took me in his arms and let me weep against his chest until I’d soaked his shirtfront. He patted my back and stroked my hair until I calmed down. I shuddered one final sigh. “Sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

  “Don’t apologize, babe. You’ve been through hell.” He placed a soft, fluttery kiss on my lips. “Come on, let me help you gather this stuff up.”

  We slipped the velvet bag and pearls into my denim backpack, followed by the papers, news clippings, and photos.

  “We’ve got to find her, Quinn.” I searched his eyes with mine, as if the secret to her whereabouts lurked within.

  “I know, honey.” He took my arm and led me back through the security checkout process. The minutes dragged on, but finally we emerged into the sunlight and back into the van.

  Quinn slept all the way to Silver Bear. I pushed the old van hard, keeping it at seventy-two on the highway, but sticking closer to the speed limit on the smaller roads.

  My stomach gurgled like a plugged drain just treated with Liquid Plumber, but I pushed on. It had been along time since breakfast. We should have packed a lunch to save time, but it hadn’t occurred to me when we’d tumbled bleary-eyed out of bed and into the van that morning. I tried to ignore my gnawing hunger when we finally turned down Black Otter Road. At five past four, I skidded to a stop on the gravel in the lot beside Rita’s shop. Five minutes late. Not too bad.

  Quinn stirred and stretched. “We there?” he yawned and combed his fingers through his curly black hair. “That went fast.”

  “Of course it did. You slept the whole way, you big slug.” I punched his arm, then slung my purse over my shoulder. “Come on. We’re late.”

  He followed me to the front door, rubbing his eyes like a child interrupted from his afternoon nap.

  The sign that hung on the inside of the window beside the wooden door said “open,” but when I pushed on the door, it didn’t budge.

  Quinn edged in front of me, as if his macho muscles could open a door latch better than mine. “Let me give it a try.” He jiggled the handle and shoved hard, with no success. “It’s locked.” He beat on it a few times with his fist.

  “Maybe she had to run an errand and isn’t back yet,” I said. I dropped onto the bench beside the door and massaged my right calf. “Damn. My leg’s cramping. I wish we had cruise control.”

  My husband sat beside me. “You should eat more bananas. It’s the potassium.” He’d been bugging me for months, saying I needed to beef up my vitamin regimen. I’d ignored him so far. He took more vitamins than Jack LaLane-turned-hypochondriac, and was the best customer at our local health food store. And yet, when I looked at his toned body and unlined face, I had to wonder if he didn’t have the right idea.

  My stomach roared. I covered it with my purse.

  Quinn chuckled. “I’m starving, too.” He craned his neck toward the diner down the street. “Maybe we could—”

  Before he could speculate about rustling up some food, he was interrupted by squealing tires and spitting gravel. A white Ford truck emerged from behind Rita’s shop and careened onto Black Otter Street, where it sped through a dust cloud. The driver had shaggy blond hair and a scruffy beard. I barely caught a glimpse of the horrified face of a young Native American woman before he shoved her to the seat and thundered past us.

  I shot to my feet, then wobbled and leaned on Quinn. “Oh my God.”

  “Stay here.” Quinn grabbed the keys out of my hand and raced to the van. Over his shoulder, he shouted, “Call McCann.”

  I cursed my stupid cramping leg and grabbed hold of the building to steady myself. I pictured him getting shot by the bastard he was chasing. He wasn’t even armed. “Quinn, no!”

  It was too late. He roared after the truck and disappeared before I got my sea legs back. With shaking hands, I dug out my cell phone and punched in Detective McCann’s number.

  Chapter 26

  McCann answered on the second ring.

  “McCann here.”

  I told him about the truck and that Quinn had gone after it. His anger buzzed over the phone. I could almost see his brow drawn into a tight frown. Then I quickly mentioned the earring, Rita’s apparent abduction, and the fact that her grandfather hadn’t opened the shop. He cursed, said something about roadblocks and local cops, and told me to sit tight.

  I sat for about three minutes, massaging my calf. When the cramp finally lessened, I got up and knocked on the door again. Nothing. I plopped back on the bench and worried about Quinn.

  Seconds after I sat down, the phone rang.

  “Rita?”

  “No. McCann. Don’t even think about going inside that shop, Mrs. Hollister. You get away from there. It may be wired to blow. Or booby trapped.”

  I swiveled around to look behind me. “What?”

  “I told you before; we don’t know what these thugs are capable of.”

  “My God.” I put one hand to my head and felt a little dizzy from the thought.

  “Now listen close. Get up. Walk away from the building. Find a store, a restaurant, anything. Buy yourself a cup of coffee and want until you see me outside before you show your face again.”

  “There’s a diner nearby.”

  “Perfect. Get your butt over there and sit tight.”

  I normally would have taken offense to the “butt” comment, but figured he was mad, and he had every right to be. I let it go. “Okay. I’m getting up right now.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “You said there was only one guy in the truck, right?”

  Where was he going with this? “Yeah. Plus Rita.”

  “All the more reason to make yourself scarce. The other one could still be inside the building.”

  A shiver ran down my spine. I didn’t speak, but stepped a few paces from the building toward the safety of the diner.

  “Mrs. Hollister? Did you hear me?”

  I gathered my bag and tucked it securely beneath my arm. “I heard you, Detective. I’m walking as we speak.”

  “Good. Call me if anything pops up. I’m on my way.”

  Curiosity mixed with dread got the better of me.

  Why did that guy take Rita? Did she recognize the description I gave her of the shaggy blond guys and call them out on it? Was she kidnapped to keep her from talking?

  After thinking about it, realized the one blond bastard wouldn’t have left his brother in the shop. If they both had been there, they would have escaped together when they heard us arrive and knock on the front door.

  And what if the loony lumberjack had scared the old man? What if Mr. Little Newt had suffered a heart attack and lay dying inside?

  I had to check.

  I stepped a little closer to the building, then got bold and walked right up to it again. I rapped on a picture window and peeked inside. The lights were on.

  Slowly, I crept around the corner toward the back. I leaned against the rough-hewn logs that smelled of cedar
, and peered into a side window. Inside, supplies packed metal shelves. Hand-carved lawn statues, like those displayed outside, stood in plastic milk crates. Boxes of candles and stationery lined one shelf. Dozens of wind chimes hung from hooks on the ceiling. One metal shelving rack held clothing: tee shirts, jeans, sweaters, hoodies, boxes of moccasins, and more. A dress rack on wheels was pushed against one wall, holding tie-dye dresses, skirts, and scarves. Nothing moved inside.

  I rounded the corner and found the back door ajar. Dread rose bitter in my throat and coated my tongue. Time slowed and sounds amplified. Easing one foot in front of the other, I slipped into the back entrance. My eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the dim light in the back room.

  “Mr. Little Newt? Hello?”

  I stepped through the hall, past the storeroom and the back door of Rita’s workshop, and moved toward the light shining from the sales floor.

  “Mr. Little Newt? It’s Marcella Hollister. Are you there?”

  A black shape launched past me, scurrying and skidding on the linoleum floor. It shot out the back door. My heart stopped. It started again when I realized it was feline. “Oh, kitty. You scared me!”

  The skinny calico darted through the door and disappeared. I felt like I was in a bad horror movie and wondered when the masked man with the chainsaw would pop out at me.

  I crept toward the front of the shop. “Hello?”

  The overhead fan droned softly, moving the air gently with a soft whirr. Nothing seemed out of place, until I looked down.

  A foot protruded from behind the checkout counter. A man’s foot, wearing scuffed black Rockports.

  I walked around the back of the counter with my pulse pounding in my heart and a scream ready on my lips. I forced myself to look.

  It was Mr. Little Newt, all right, with a gash that gaped on his forehead, ugly and raw. A bloodied stone hatchet lay beside him, some kind of ceremonial piece with rawhide ties and beads.