“Said he ate scrambled eggs and four slices of bacon for breakfast, and buttered his own toast.”
“Then he’s okay,” I sighed. “This is hitting too close to home.”
“Is that the best belated newsflash you can come up with?” Clarice growled. She elbowed me in the side. “Your turn.”
I told her about the new houseguest at Tarq’s and gave her a bare-bones outline of his plan. Because that was all I had too. If Skip had been organizing this operation, there would have been a thirty-slide PowerPoint presentation, but Josh and I had only one option — winging it. At least we had the benefit of his experience as an FBI agent.
Clarice halted, stock still in the middle of the track, and bunched her fists on her hips. A breath steam cloud settled over her head, replacing the massive bouffant wig she used to wear, back in the days of steady employment and drive-thru lattes and manicures. Her lips worked silently, and I could tell she was about to light into me, but she was prearranging her words — a rare occurrence.
I tested the slushy center of a puddle with my boot toe.
“First,” Clarice said, her tone surprisingly measured, “this Lutsenko brute. He’s not just going to want his paintings back. He’s going to want revenge. He’s lost face, and he will try to do worse to you to make up for it.”
I nodded. There was no getting around the risks we’d be taking.
“Second,” Clarice continued, “I’m in. Don’t you dare assume I’m not.” She waited for my next nod of ascent before expanding her list. “Third, I know how we can get Chet and Josh together for a debriefing.”
“Now?” I blurted.
“Of course now. We have things to do, girl.” Clarice executed an about-face, and I trotted along behind her on the way back to the mansion.
oOo
An hour later, Clarice and Emmie and I were lined up on Lentil’s bench seat, rumbling out onto the county road. Emmie’s eyes were still shining from her exceptionally fine morning. If quality of life can be measured in the thickness of mud caked on a little girl’s body and clothing, then she had riches galore. And she’d thoroughly earned the bath Clarice had insisted upon.
Emmie was actually chattering — about her friends, Eli and Odell, and how hard it was to set posts into frozen ground and how Wilbur had squealed and squealed until he saw that his slop bucket was inside the small enclosure. Then he’d cantered straight in with his curly tail lifted in the air.
I glanced down at the top of her head, her dark hair still damp but carefully combed. And something just opened up inside me. My heart swelled until it almost hurt. I’d been sheltering her too much. She was ready. My sweet girl.
Clarice caught me contemplating and uttered a soft “Huh” with a slight nod.
I drove carefully on the slick pavement and pulled into the potholed lot next to Gus’s service station-slash-post office. Clarice’s Subaru sat forlornly behind the building, and I eased Lentil in beside the station wagon.
I whistled softly at the mangled fender, crumpled hood, and empty headlight socket on Clarice’s formerly pristine car.
“Don’t say it,” Clarice mumbled, jerking her door open. “Not one word.” She slid out of the truck and banged on the back door of the service bay.
Immediately, the door swung wide, with Gus filling the opening. “Ladies, good to see you,” he said. “Fine day for a drive.”
I took one more quick look around the rest of the empty parking lot and the trees crowding in. No traffic in any of the four directions approaching the intersection. Then I slung my arm over the back of the seat and tapped Chet on the shoulder.
He skittered out of the truck and through the narrow gap Gus created by moving to the side so fast he was only a dark shadow, a flicker of movement.
“It’ll be a few days yet before the last part I need comes in, Clarice,” Gus announced in a sonorous voice. Anyone within fifty yards would have heard him. “Your repair is my number one priority, but you’re just gonna have to be patient.”
“Don’t I know that,” Clarice shouted. “I’m not paying you by the hour.” She climbed back into the cab and slammed her door.
“I hope Gus realizes that was just for show,” I said once we were safely on the road again. “It might be a good idea to be nice to him, since he’s sweet on you and all.”
Emmie giggled and pressed her sandwiched hands between her knees. Her sneakered feet stuck out beyond the edge of the seat and bobbed in rhythm with Lentil’s rough engine.
“Huh,” Clarice grumped. “He is not.”
Emmie and I rolled our eyes at each other.
“Okay, maybe you’re the only one who’s getting flustered, but I was pretty sure the admiration was mutual the other night,” I added. “And maybe you concocted this perfect rendezvous for Josh and Chet just so you could see Gus again.”
“Phooey!” Clarice barked. “Baloney! Rubbish!” But her efforts only set Emmie and me off again into peals of laughter.
The Six Shooter Storage Solutions lot was still the drab, uninspiring place it had been the last time I’d visited. I dropped Clarice off at the rental office in front and continued on to the aisle where our unit 236 sat in identical anonymity with all the others.
I noticed for the first time that the lanes were actually flagged with little street signs. We were on Wild Bill Hickok Way. Some things you just can’t make up. I wondered what good ol’ Wild Bill would think of my gold stash.
The long row of dingy garage doors on the other side of Wild Bill Hickok Way looked exactly the same but were labeled with odd numbers.
I called Clarice. “How about 241?”
I heard murmuring in the background. “Occupied,” she replied.
“239?”
“Ditto.”
“Good grief,” I muttered. “We can’t be directly across. How about 231? But ask if the ones in between are full too.”
More shuffling and low voices. “This is one storage-happy town,” Clarice announced. “But bingo on 231.” She hung up.
“How are your muscles, Emmie?” I asked as I backed into 236. “We have some heavy lifting to do.”
Clarice banged on the door several minutes later with the signed rental agreement and keys for the new unit.
I rolled the door up far enough to let her edge inside while bent in half then quickly closed it behind her.
“Got a new brother-in-law who has more junk than he knows what to do with, therefore necessitating the rental of a storage unit in advance of his cross-country move with his extensive family,” Clarice said. “Wilbur Chops. In honor of one of our overnight guests. I wanted to get Orville in the name as well, but the clerk didn’t look quite dumb enough to buy that one too.”
“Therefore no ID available,” I panted. “Brilliant.” I clunked a crate onto Lentil’s tailgate.
“It required a level of finesse not consistent with a flustered, starry-eyed woman, I’ll have you know.” Clarice lifted another crate with a grunt and waddled over to dump it beside mine. “Seems we lucked out and got one of the last remaining empty units in the place. The rest of the row opposite is full.”
“I sure hope all the renters carry insurance,” I muttered.
“Except us,” Clarice noted. Which she really didn’t need to point out. No insurance agency in its right might would come anywhere near guaranteeing the contents of the unit. But since my handling of the paintings was negligence removed to the third degree, I wasn’t sure I could be held liable for it. If I was caught with them in my possession, though, I’d be looking at the inside of a jail cell for a long time.
Emmie tugged and shoved the crates into a raft in the middle of the truck bed. Eleven. One short because of the gold bar Tarq had absconded with, at my request. Soon to be converted into cash, I hoped, especially considering the progress being made on the conversion of the mechanics’ garage. At the rate they were going, the contractors would be earning a bonus for early completion too.
We left the paintings wr
apped in an old blanket — a bundle on the concrete floor. Not that the blanket was effective protection, but it seemed vulgar to leave them lying there without any sort of covering, shivering in the dark — especially the naked ladies.
I pulled Lentil out of unit 236 and drove the few yards across the aisle to unit 231, where we reversed the loading process and made a neat pile of crates against the back wall of the new unit.
“A good day’s work.” Clarice brushed her hands together and flicked a few specks off her jacket.
“Separation is the name of the game,” I agreed.
“You’re both silly,” Emmie said.
I was just starting to nod when Clarice shouted, “Objection!” and playfully swatted Emmie’s leg as she climbed into the cab. “Watch your mouth, young lady.”
“I’d say she’s learning from the best.” I aimed a puckered grimace at Clarice through the open window and eased Lentil forward so she could pull the unit’s door closed.
“Locked and unloaded at the Six Shooter compound.” Clarice buckled her seatbelt and flashed me a top-that glance.
I groaned. “We need to change the subject.”
Woodland had all of five light-controlled intersections on the main drag through town. We hit yellows at the first three we came to, and I dutifully slowed to stops each time, making sure to keep Lentil’s nose out of the crosswalks. Nothing good would result from attracting any kind of law enforcement attention.
In the middle of the next block, a little, beat-up, algae-covered Datsun pickup zipped out of First Presbyterian’s parking lot right in front of me, and I slammed on the brakes.
“It’s Loretta and Tarq,” Emmie said, bouncing on the seat and waving frantically.
The Datsun cut the corner close, and the right rear wheel dropped off the curb. Then it swerved, tapped the brakes a few times, and sped away. Rather, I should say the driver — Loretta — did those things, but in the brief glimpse I got of her through the windshield, she didn’t make eye contact and sure appeared to be concentrating, her hands wrapped tightly around the steering wheel.
“Consuming a little sacramental wine?” Clarice muttered, her hands braced against the dashboard.
“No, actually, I think they may have been attending an AA meeting.” I gulped a breath to slow my racing heart. “And maybe that was a hint that we’re running just a tad early.”
Clarice flicked her sleeve back to check her watch and grunted. “Over there.” Her voice boomed through the cab, and she stabbed a forefinger toward a sporting goods store across the street. “I need to buy something.”
I could think of a few witty responses to that particular incongruity, but I was tired of the repartee. Maybe I was just plain tired. Too many short nights and early mornings.
Instead, I made proper use of the turn signal and executed a slow turn into yet another parking lot which was dotted with pickups in even worse condition than mine. Emmie and I straggled into the store behind the steamship that was Clarice, gawking at the merchandise.
The term ‘sporting goods’ means really different things in different parts of the country. In San Francisco, the store would have been full of equipment for youth league team sports like soccer, football, and baseball plus a few things for the parents such as hyper-expensive running shoes; moisture-wicking, color-coordinated outfits; and heart monitors on elastic armbands. But here in Woodland, ‘sporting goods’ meant guns of all shapes and lengths, stacks upon stacks of ammo boxes, knives also of all shapes and lengths, bright orange vests, and camouflage everything else.
“Don’t touch anything,” was all I could think to murmur to Emmie.
We caught up with Clarice at a counter in the back. She was having a heated discussion with a clerk about color options for ear muffs. Apparently, in this store, there was only one option — camouflage. Surprise, surprise.
“Are they big enough, do you think?” Clarice huffed, turning to me.
“Why don’t you try them on?”
She gave me a mighty scowl, but followed my suggestion. They had some sort of springy tension mechanism inside that made them one-size-fits-all, or at least close enough. They just about doubled the size of Clarice’s head, but her ears were completely covered.
“Phew.” Clarice pulled them off, and they snapped in on themselves, forming a compact ball. “Toasty. Figured Gus needs these since he insists on riding his motorcycle in this weather. And for his birding expeditions when he spends hours documenting species. Did you know he helps the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife with migration counts?”
Well, well, well. So Clarice and Gus had found the time to discuss hobbies while Gus was rendering her assistance yesterday. Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure Clarice had any hobbies, other than keeping track of me.
“Will they fit under his helmet?” I asked.
“He wears one of those beanie-style helmets that barely covers his cranium.” Clarice sniffed. “Hardly sufficient, to my way of thinking. I’ll have to nag him about that.” She nodded to the clerk. “I’ll take ‘em. What are your gift wrap options?”
The clerk stared at her as though she’d just fallen off a passing UFO.
“Never mind,” Clarice grumbled. “That paper bag will have to do.”
“Hence the beard,” I said.
Clarice squinted at me and slapped money on the counter.
“To keep his face warm while he’s riding. Plus it acts like a scarf too.” I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before, but the idea gave me the giggles.
Emmie was completely on my wavelength and joined in. Clarice just marched back through the store with her purchase tucked under her arm. Maybe my lack of sleep was making me a bit rummy.
Clarice’s delay had the desired effect. Once again the four-way junction and parking lot at Gus’s shop were devoid of traffic. We’d given Loretta and Tarq the time they’d needed to surreptitiously collect Josh from the meeting spot in the back of the empty service bay. I pictured Josh and Chet there, hunkered down amidst the compressors, wrenches, and grease while Gus kept a lookout.
Chet dashed out through the back door and dove in behind the seat while Clarice thrust the paper bag at Gus. No words were exchanged, but I could have sworn Gus’s eyes were twinkling behind all that facial hair.
CHAPTER 16
Chet was giddy with anticipation, and I had to repeatedly warn him to keep his head down.
“He knows. He knows,” Chet whispered, “where Kamala is. With that Ziggy guy. One of the men I saw at the party with Lutsenko. Josh said it’s the same guy.”
“Josh suspects,” I cautioned, “that Ziggy Beltran is involved. Your sister’s exact location will be difficult to confirm.”
“But you’ll make him tell you,” Chet insisted, “in exchange for the paintings.”
“We’re gonna try. You — we all — will have to be patient. And circumspect. Even so, it’s an extremely long shot. Do you know that term, Chet?” I replied.
“Bad odds,” he chirped from behind the seat, and I got another glimpse of his beaming face in the rearview mirror.
“Down,” I hissed.
“It’s going to work. Yes, it is,” he sing-songed, the ratty upholstery he was hiding behind doing nothing to muffle his optimism.
As soon as we reached the mansion, Clarice banished Chet to the basement and sent Emmie and me off for naps, muttering something about sleep being the only antidote for such prolonged displays of childishness.
Clarice is a stalwart, and we’d always had an excellent working relationship when she was my executive assistant. But we hadn’t lived, eaten, and, increasingly, bickered together, all while under constant stress, until recently. As usual, she was wise in decreeing a timeout.
But mine didn’t last very long. After a fleeting catnap, I snuck out of the mansion and set out for a little restorative time among the trees. Plus the man at the end of my trek who deserved a long overdue debriefing.
As he is wont to do, Eli found me
while I was still in the clearing surrounding the mansion. The coat I’d given him for Christmas was zipped snuggly up under his chin, but one of his boots trailed an untied lace.
“How are Wilbur and Orville?” I asked.
“Cranky.”
“Are you keeping up on your schoolwork?” I cringed at the motherliness in my tone. But Eli is known to shirk academics — or rather, to find other forms of education much more expedient.
He shrugged.
I tousled his already disheveled fawn-colored hair. “Thanks for helping Latrelle, Purcel, and Odell settle in. I know you’re giving up some of your space for them.”
He smiled up at me with those crystal-clear, ocean-blue eyes and a nod of acknowledgment. Already he was the strong, silent type. And his new, big front teeth were straightening as they grew in. Pretty soon, the rest of his body would become proportionate — probably way too fast for my taste.
“Wanna see the garage?” Eli asked. “The wall studs are in, and there’s a ditch digger machine.”
Major attractions, indeed. So we took a scenic detour, and I was amazed to see just how fast the building had been blocked into dormitory rooms with a generous kitchen and abundant bathroom facilities. Eli gave me a point-by-point tour of all the pipes sticking up out of the floor with details about what each one was for — cold, hot, drains, vents. I left him perched on a mound of dirt, studiously observing the man who was operating the ditch digger, and made my way to the bunkhouse.
Walt was in his tiny cubbyhole of an office just off the boys’ schoolroom.
I knocked on the doorjamb. “You’ve been thinking about the garage renovation project for a while, haven’t you?”
Walt glanced up and grinned. “I might have had a set of plans drawn up, just in case.”
I dropped into the chair opposite him. “Looks good. Are you ready for more surprises?”
Walt fixed me with his disconcertingly intense blue gaze and stretched out a long leg to nudge the door closed. “Maybe.”
And so I told him about the Laotian family in the mansion basement who had previously occupied the garage and then the calving shed. In my recounting, I realized just how doggedly trouble seemed to follow Chet around. I also told Walt about the paintings — not specifics, just that they might be originals or not, might be from museum heists or not, might incite the revenge-based interest of a certain organized crime kingpin or not. It was a flourishing set of what-ifs.
Hide & Find (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 3) Page 13
