Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 04 - A Deadly Change of Power

by Gina Cresse

  “How much farther?” Rick asked, squinting to see out the window.

  “About fifteen miles, I think,” I said, gripping the back of Craig’s seat.

  “Good. If this gets any worse, we’re gonna have to pull over and wait for it to let up. I can’t see the road.”

  “If you can’t see the road, why don’t we pull over now?” Craig asked.

  “Because I can’t see beyond the side of the road either. If I pull off, it might be right over a cliff,” Rick said. “I’ll just keep between the snowplow poles and we’ll be okay.”

  “Great,” Craig replied, not sounding too convinced.

  We finally reached Graeagle and found the post office. The one good thing about the current blizzard was that it kept everyone at home and off the streets. Since it was after hours, even the postmaster was gone. The place was literally deserted.

  I pulled the list of postal addressed out of my purse and handed it to Rick.

  “Are you sure about this?” Craig asked, worried. “Tampering with mail. Isn’t that a federal offense? I think that’s how they finally got Al Capone, isn’t it?”

  “Not exactly. Income tax evasion. Completely different,” Rick replied.

  I gave Craig a concerned look, then turned my eyes to Rick. “Should we be doing this?” I asked.

  “You’re not doing anything. Just go over there and pretend you’re buying stamps out of that machine. Don’t watch me. See no evil...”

  I took Craig’s arm. “Okay. We’ll just be over here, buying stamps.”

  “Good. Keep an eye on the door. If you see anyone coming, give me a signal,” Rick said.

  Craig and I exchanged glances. “Accomplices. We’re going to jail for sure,” Craig said.

  I nervously pressed buttons on the stamp machine, constantly glancing out the window to the street. Rick was busy picking the locks on the four boxes from the list of addresses I’d printed.

  Rick finally stepped around the corner. “Come on. Let’s go,” he said, stuffing a bundle of envelopes inside his jacket.

  We followed him out to the Blazer and piled in. I shook the snow out of my hair and peered over the seat to get a better look at the envelopes Rick had “liberated.”

  “We’re lucky. This blizzard kept everyone away. Normally, those boxes would have already been emptied by now, I’m sure,” Rick said.

  He handed the envelopes to Craig and started the engine. “I’d feel better if we got out of here. I’d hate to be caught with this stuff right in front of the post office.”

  “Good thinking. Uncle Doug gave me the key to his place. Let’s head over there and get some sleep. I don’t think I can keep my eyes open another minute.”

  Craig offered to light a fire in the fireplace while I heated water to make instant hot chocolate I’d found in the cupboard.

  “Where’s the knob for the gas?” Craig called to me as I busied myself in the kitchen.

  “Gas?” I questioned.

  “Yeah. You know, to light the fire,” he replied.

  I smiled to myself. “No gas, honey. Gotta do it the old-fashioned way, with newspaper and kindling,” I called back to him.

  There was a brief moment of silence. “Where’s the newspaper?” he finally asked.

  I checked the fire on the stove, then walked into the living room. “I’ll get some. The property management company makes sure there’s always of supply of papers and firewood during the winter. The firewood’s stacked out back, but I think the newspapers are in the garage.”

  I flipped the light switch on in the garage and glanced around for a stack of newspapers. I spotted the supply piled in the far corner. I grabbed one off the top and carried it back into the house. Amused, I read the headlines to Craig and Rick as though I were a news commentator reporting serious, earthshaking news. “Our top story tonight: Portola High School seniors hold a carwash to raise money for a senior trip to Disneyland. In other news, the mayor has agreed to appear at a public inquiry to answer questions as to why he has registered all his vehicles in the state of Oregon, when he obviously is a resident of California.”

  Craig chuckled. “What paper’s that?”

  “Portola Reporter. A lot different than the Union Tribune,” I noted. I pulled the small classified section out and handed it to Craig to build a fire. I wanted to save the rest of the paper to peruse through later, just for kicks. First, we had important business to attend to.

  We sorted through the envelopes for the four businesses. There were checks from five oil companies in addition to the original four that we already knew about.

  I pulled another envelope out of the stack and gaped at the return address. “Look at this. Western Gas and Electric. It’s gone even beyond the oil companies. The power companies are in on it too.”

  “Let me see that,” Craig said, taking the envelope from me. He opened it and studied the check. “It’s for thirty thousand. Didn’t they just file bankruptcy?”

  I nodded in disgust. “Our bills go sky high, and they’re crying bankrupt while they’re paying this kind of money to some fly-by-night mercenary group. Makes me sick.”

  Rick tossed another envelope on the pile. “Here’s one from Madison Electric. Fifty thousand and change. Your friend Ronnie’s in big trouble.”

  I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. The odds seemed insurmountable that we’d beat what we were up against. “What do we do next?” I asked.

  Rick gathered the envelopes back into a neat stack and placed them in the center of the table. “We stake out the post office. We need to find out who comes to claim the mail from those boxes. When they do, we follow. The more we know about them, the better.”

  “How are we going to do that? We can’t just hang out all day in the post office. That’ll look too suspicious,” Craig said.

  “We’ll do it in turns. We’ll wait outside. This is a tiny community. There won’t be a lot of action. When someone goes in, one of us will follow. When you get inside, fumble with some keys like you’re looking for the right one, but keep an eye on the boxes. If our guy goes to one of the four, then we know who to follow.”

  “When do we start?” I asked.

  Rick glanced out the window. The storm was still heavy. “Tomorrow morning. It’s late. I doubt anyone will be checking their mail tonight.”

  I checked my watch. It was nearly eight. “I found some soup in the pantry. Anyone interested in dinner?”

  “I’m starved,” Craig said.

  “Sounds great. I’ll put more wood on the fire,” Rick offered.

  After dinner, Craig and I retired to the master bedroom. Rick said he wanted to stay up to watch a sprint-car race on ESPN.

  I brought the six-month-old Portola Reporter with me to bed. Craig read over my shoulder as I leafed through the pages. When I got to page four, a photo of a local resident standing next to his collection of off-the-wall costumes and props caught my attention. “Wait a minute,” I said, pointing at the picture.

  “What?” Craig asked.

  I looked closer at the photo. “I’ve seen this before,” I stated, jamming my finger on the page.

  Craig studied the picture. “Sure. I remember that too. That’s the big hamburger from those old commercials back in the late sixties or early seventies.”

  I shook my head. “No. I mean I’ve seen it recently.”

  Craig gave me a curious look. “You saw the hamburger?”

  “No. I saw a picture of it. It was hanging on the wall in that shop Ronnie took me to the other day. Larry, the man we went to talk to about Ronnie’s dad—he built it.”

  “He built Mayor McCheese?”

  “Yes, and Big Mac too,” I said, glancing down the page to find the story that accompanied the photo. “The question is, who is this guy, and what’s he doing with it now?”

  Craig placed his finger on the story. “There. His name’s Cameron Boxer.”

  We both read the short article silently. The story indicated that Cameron Boxer was a
local resident newly relocated to the Graeagle area from his previous home in the Hollywood Hills. He owned his own public relations and advertising firm, and hinted that he may be interested in featuring local talent in some up-coming commercials he had been hired to produce. The costumes appearing in the photos with him were purchased at auction over the years for his collection. He’d been gathering old items from studios since he was a young man in the late fifties and early sixties. He’d gathered so many that he had to build a huge warehouse on his property to store it all.

  I slipped the page out from the rest and folded it over so the story and photo were the only items visible. “I don’t think we need to stake out the post office tomorrow,” I said, setting the newspaper down on the nightstand next to the bed. “This has got to be the guy we’re looking for.”

  Craig reached over and switched off the lamp. “I think you’re right. We’ll show the story to Rick in the morning. I bet he’ll agree.”

  I was out the minute my head hit the pillow. I don’t know how long I’d been asleep when the banging on the bedroom door woke up both Craig and I.

  “Get up! Come on! We’ve gotta get out of here!” Rick’s voice boomed from the other side of the door.

  “What’s wrong?” Craig called out.

  Rick burst through the door. “No time for questions. Come on. Now!” he reiterated.

  We jumped out of bed and searched in the dark for our shoes. I laced mine up. Craig grabbed our jackets and tossed mine to me. I got one arm through when Craig grabbed my hand and led me toward the door. “Come on,” he said, pulling me along.

  “Wait,” I said, rushing back to grab the newspaper page off the nightstand. We hurried down the hall to the living room.

  Rick grabbed the stack of envelopes we’d taken and ran toward the fireplace, ready to toss them in the flames.

  “Wait! What are you doing? We might need those for evidence,” I demanded.

  He opened the screen. “There is no way in the world any good can come from you or I being caught with these. We got the information we wanted.”

  Craig squeezed my hand. “He’s right,” he said.

  Rick paused long enough to catch my expression. I knew he was right, too. I nodded. “Go ahead,” I said.

  Rick tossed the envelopes in the fire and closed the screen. Then he grabbed his jacket and led us to the door. “Watch your step. Don’t trip over this guy,” he said, stepping over an unconscious man lying next to the woodpile.

  I gaped at the lifeless man on the ground. “Oh my God. That’s Pianalto,” I blurted. “Is he dead?”

  Rick unlocked the Blazer and jumped in the driver’s seat. “No, he’s not dead. But if we aren’t gone by the time he wakes up, or when his partner gets back with reinforcements, we might be.”

  Craig and I raced to the Blazer. We jumped in just as Rick jammed it into gear and shoved his foot down on the accelerator.

  “What happened back there?” I asked as I buckled my seatbelt tight over my lap. Craig busied himself doing the same thing.

  “I’d fallen asleep on the couch,” Rick explained, checking the rear view mirror. “I woke up and decided to put another log on the fire before I went to bed. I went out to the woodpile and surprised that guy sneaking around. There was another guy in a pickup parked at the street.”

  “Probably Hollers,” Craig said.

  “Maybe,” I said. “Or, it could have been Cameron Boxer,” I suggested.

  Rick eyed me through the rear-view mirror. “Cameron Boxer?” he questioned.

  “Yeah. We found an article about him in that paper we have. We think he’s the guy we’re after. There’s a photo. Maybe you’ll recognize him,” I said, hopeful.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know. Didn’t get a good look at him. Anyhow, I cold-cocked the guy. His partner took off, but you can bet your stuntman-union card he’ll be back.”

  Rick adjusted the rear-view mirror. There were lights from a vehicle behind us. “You guys buckled in?” he asked.

  We both double-checked. In unison, we said, “Yes.”

  Rick accelerated and took the next turn fast enough to send the Blazer spinning. We did a complete three-sixty before proceeding down the main highway. The lights followed us.

  Rick glared at the rear-view mirror. “It’s him,” Rick hissed. “Hang on, guys.”

  We headed north. So did our tail. Rick drove fast. The guy behind us had trouble keeping up. He apparently wasn’t a Hollywood stunt driver who’d grown up driving a snowplow. He hadn’t caught up to us by the time we reached Blairsden, where the road we were on ended. The stop sign was coming up fast. Rick let his foot off the accelerator, but it was clear he didn’t plan to stop. We slid around the corner, fishtailing the big Blazer. The lights behind us kept coming.

  Luckily, the storm had passed and the road had recently been plowed, but it wasn’t clear by any means. The plow left at least an inch of packed snow on the pavement. We kept our speed up as we headed back toward Portola.

  Our tail was gaining confidence in his driving, and he seemed to be gaining on us. We approached an area with houselights off to the left. “What’s up there?” Rick asked.

  I searched my memory. The sign on the road said Delleker. “There’s an old millpond up there. That’s what that rise is,” I said.

  Rick spun the wheel and aimed the Blazer up the hill toward the pond. Our pursuer followed. Rick positioned the Blazer on the uphill side of the pond and stepped on the brakes. He studied the pond. “Is it frozen?” he asked.

  “Probably. People skate on it in the winter,” I confirmed.

  “Is it deep?”

  I had a sinking feeling. “Why?”

  Rick didn’t answer.

  A dirt road skirted the pond on three sides. Rick turned the wheels downhill toward the pond. I grabbed the seatback.

  The lights from the other truck got closer. Rick turned the wheel so we were moving across the face of the slope. It was too steep. The truck following us made the same move to try to catch us.

  “Hang on,” Rick said, turning the wheel. Almost in slow motion, the Blazer rolled over on its side, then on its roof, then on its other side, then back on its wheels. We’d rolled completely over and landed right side up on the road that skirted the pond. The truck chasing us rolled, too, but it didn’t stop on the road. It continued over the bank and landed upside-down on the ice.

  Rick put the Blazer in low gear to get out of the deep snow and aimed it back toward the highway. We drove for ten minutes without saying a word. Craig glared at Rick the entire time.

  Craig’s scowl didn’t go unnoticed by Rick. Finally, he broke the silence. “What?” Rick demanded.

  “You promised you wouldn’t roll it.”

  I put a hand on Craig’s shoulder. He turned and smiled at me. “But I gotta admit, it was kind of fun,” he said, grinning.

  Chapter Fourteen

  We huddled in a corner booth of an all-night diner on the edge of Reno. I spread open the page from the newspaper that featured Cameron Boxer and slid it across the table in front of Rick.

  Rick studied the article. “Cameron Boxer? You think this is our guy?”

  I nodded. “See that big hamburger, there?” I said, pointing at the photo.

  “Yeah?” Rick replied.

  “A friend of Ronnie’s built it for some commercials produced back in the late sixties. It was built in the machine shop where Ronnie’s dad had done some work on his invention the same day he was killed in the explosion.”

  Rick continued reading the article, but didn’t say anything.

  “It’s too much of a coincidence,” I continued. “Cameron Boxer has a connection to Ronnie’s dad through that shop, and now he runs this so-called advertising agency in Graeagle. All these oil and energy companies are paying him mega-bucks. That guy you knocked out last night is one of the goons who tried to snatch Ronnie. How much you wanna bet he works for Boxer?”

  Rick slid the paper back acro
ss the table to me. “Probably right. I’ve never heard of this Cameron Boxer. If he’s been in the business as long as this article says, maybe Gary’s heard of him.”

  Craig glanced at his watch. “What time’s that flight out of here? I’ve had enough of the North Pole.”

  Rick slid out of the booth. “We should probably head for the airport. We have to drop the rental off.”

  Craig and I exchanged worried glances, which didn’t go unnoticed by Rick.

  “No need to mention that the Blazer has been involved in a roll-over incident,” Rick said. “There wasn’t any damage because the snow was so thick. Just let me do the talking. Okay?”

  Craig and I nodded, glad to turn the entire matter over to Rick.

  With barely six hours of sleep under his belt, I sent Craig off to work at the hospital. He could not finagle anymore time off without offering our first-born or applying for a leave of absence.

  I set the alarm to allow me one more hour of sleep before I had to head over to the Caper and Lawless office. Gary agreed to take the morning off from his movie work to bring Ronnie, Jake, and Lance in for a meeting.

  Gary studied the photo of Cameron Boxer. “I don’t recognize the guy,” he said. He handed the article to Ronnie.

  She gaped at the picture. “Oh my God. That’s him,” she blurted.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Charlie Johnson. The sailor who tried to blow me up on his boat,” she continued.

  “What?” Lance said, taking the paper from her so he could get a look at the fiend who tried to kill his sister. He examined the picture, scratching his head. “I remember this guy. I thought the name sounded familiar, but it’s been a long time.”

  Ronnie focused her eyes on Lance. “You know him?”

  Lance nodded. “He was a lot younger when I met him. He owned a couple of racing bikes and some pretty hot muscle cars. He had some machine work done at Harold’s shop. Boy, he’d just picked up a real nice red-and-white Triumph the day...”

  We all waited for him to continue. Lance fell silent.