by Lois Winston
I pocketed the key to keep it safe. “Working on that part.”
FIFTEEN
Martinez phoned the next afternoon. “I’ve had search teams combing the Taylor property for two days. We came up empty-handed. I could use a fresh set of eyes on this missing money puzzle.”
“What did you find?” I asked, curling into the phone at the sound of his voice. Bright sunshine streamed through the window. All the snow had melted and today looked to be a crisp winter day. I’d given Mama another day off and had seen clients all morning. This call was a welcome break from a busy day.
“A couple of abandoned vehicles, including a rusted-out school bus. Lots of downed trees. Piles of debris. That sort of thing. If they buried the money, we could spend the rest of our lives trying to find it.”
“Maybe.”
Silence vibrated on the line. “You got something?” Martinez asked.
“I don’t know. The bus, perhaps. It may be a Bluebird bus.”
“Great insight. I need your help. Can I pick you up?”
Was he for real? His tone sounded light and breezy. “I don’t know what I could offer that your team couldn’t. I’m an accountant, remember?”
“Hard to forget. Anyway, I need to close this case. Word on the street is that you’re a closer.”
“So you say.”
“So I know.”
I laughed. The door opened, and he strode to my desk, pocketing his phone. “You ready?” he said.
Happiness welled up deep inside. I grabbed my new purse, coat, and the mystery key. “Yes, I believe I am.”
~*~
We talked about the weather on the drive from Maryland to Virginia, and then he asked about my kids. I gave him a quick run through about Charla and Lexy. Then I asked if he had kids.
He snorted. “Not exactly.”
He didn’t know if he had kids? That didn’t sit right with me. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“No two-legged kids. That I’m sure of, but the guys tease me about the cats all the time.”
He’d been teasing. I relaxed my guard. The thought of this brawny man with cats tickled me. “You have cats?”
“Inherited them when my mom went into a nursing home a year ago. She didn’t make it out, and now I’m the humble servant of two Manx cats.”
His sincerity and openness about such a private family matter caused my breath to hitch. “I’m sorry to hear about your mom.”
“She put up the good fight against breast cancer, but we couldn’t fix her, and she was ready to go.”
He sounded matter-of-fact, but his white-knuckled grip on the wheel told another story. Sympathy crowded into my throat making it hard to speak. “I lost my dad already. I know how hard it is to lose a parent.”
“I’ve still got my brother. We’re adjusting to the loss.”
More miles went by. I paddled upstream in our conversation until I found something to say. “A friend of mine has Manx cats. Hers are small and cuddly. Are yours?”
“Napoleon and Hannibal never heard of cuddly, and they must’ve slurped growth hormones as kittens. They’re large for cats, though not quite as big as your dog.”
Madonna was quite tall. And wide. “Isn’t that something? We both have supersized pets.”
“And we value our families. That’s two things we have in common.”
An effervescent mood flashed, brightening the atmosphere. He’d gone out of his way to get me today and now he was listing the things we had in common. Dare I mention a third? What the hay? Why not throw caution to the wind?
“We like finding answers, too,” I added.
He smiled until his dimples came out of hiding. “That we do.”
~*~
Martinez drove on an access road near the area where the bus was located. It was a short hike to the clearing. Despite my warm coat and gloves, it was chilly in the woods. My steps quickened when I saw the rusting hulk. Obviously there wasn’t an ATM machine on the side of it that would spit out money when needed.
Where would I hide money if I wanted to conceal it on this bus? “How big is two million dollars?”
“Depends on what form it’s in, and there may not be that much left of the original haul. Stocks and securities don’t take much space. Larger bills take up less room than small ones.”
“Surely you can narrow it down. Don’t you have access to an inventory or a photo of what was stolen originally?”
“Sadly, not without alerting the feds. The newspaper accounts said six million in cash and bonds.”
The bare branches overhead danced as a gust of wind passed through. “What about contacting the armored car place? I bet they’d bend over backward to help you.”
He shrugged. “Not as easy as it seems. That company went out of business during the last twenty years, so we’ve kept the possible armed robbery connection quiet. The feds will take over this case in a heartbeat.”
“Hmm. Okay. Help me out with your best guess. Will the stolen loot fit inside a toaster, a washing machine, or a speed boat?”
“Probably the washing machine, assuming it’s all still there. Since the story about the farmland sale was false and since they banked nearly a million dollars afterward, there’s probably only a million hidden still, if that. Don’t forget the blackmail scheme. Page Browning received two grand a month from Lettie Taylor for nearly fifteen years. That’s right at three hundred sixty thousand dollars.”
That brought me up short. “Wouldn’t someone have noticed the sequential bills? I thought bulk money was shipped in numerical order or something like that.”
“Not always. And without an inventory list, we don’t know that it was all bills in the armored car.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely. For a noncriminal, you have a good idea of how things work.”
“I wish. Let me think.” I walked around the outside of the bus, hoping something would occur to me. The rubber on the tires was gone in places, and there was no money poking out of those holes. Not the tires. I knelt on the ground and studied the undercarriage. The grime-coated underbelly looked like the usual stuff. No extra compartment was visible.
“You checked under the hood?” I asked.
“I did.” He lifted the hood, and the rusty engine filled the entire space.
No help there. “Is it safe to go inside?”
He nodded and opened the squeaky door. I mounted the steps and stood inside, my hair brushing the ceiling. The bus looked much smaller than the one I used to ride. I eased down the aisle, looking at each seat, but the padding looked intact and uniform. To be certain, I sat on a couple of seats. Nothing bill-shaped underneath, though they were still uncomfortable. While I sat there, I gazed at the dusty-covered rearview mirror. The brand of bus was adjacent to the mirror. I read the name and groaned in disappointment.
Years ago, I rode a Bluebird brand bus. That’s why I thought the school bus was a credible lead, but it wasn’t. “We’re wasting our time,” I said. “This is a different make of bus. Tell me again what else you guys found out here.”
He ran through a few items, then he said, “and a bird house.”
That got my attention because we were talking about birds again. “What kind of bird house?”
Martinez checked his notes. “A narrow, wooden house on a slender metal pole. It’d be hard to hide a hundred dollars inside, much less a million dollars.”
“Take me there.”
So he did. We drove across the property, and it was even more remote. I was thankful for the reprieve in the heated vehicle. The sunlight was thinner back here. Lots more shadows. He parked, and we hiked a bit to reach the birdhouse’s GPS coordinates.
Finally, I saw it, and my feet stilled. The weathered birdhouse sat in the middle of a grassy meadow, far from any trees. Not just a birdhouse. A bluebird house. If it were my property, I would’ve installed it closer to the tree line. Since it was in an unusual place, I took that as a positive s
ign.
“The money’s here,” I ventured.
His brows arched. “How do you know?”
“Because the bluebird house told me so.”
“You’re psychic now?”
“Pragmatic. If I wanted to bury something on this wooded property, I’d do it away from trees. Given the most likely softer dirt in the meadow and the fact that this bluebird house would attract bluebirds near the trees, I feel confident about my prediction. Guess we should’ve brought shovels.”
“I have shovels in my vehicle, but where would we dig? This is a big meadow. It won’t be easy going with the frozen ground.”
“Under the bluebird house. I believe it’s a marker. Did you check it before?”
He shook his head. “Nope. We catalogued the site and moved on. Nothing about this meadow screamed ‘dig here’ to my search team.”
“Good thing you’ve got me. Daddy had a bluebird house in our backyard for years.”
Ten minutes later, Martinez looked at me like I was the most amazing woman in the world. He set aside the shovel he’d been digging with and knelt to brush more dirt off the metal lid he’d discovered. “You did it!”
I knelt beside him, using a sharp stick to help define the lid in the cold ground. “What is this? A hatch to a secret bunker?”
“Nope. They went old school on storage devices. It’s a 55-gallon drum. From the look of this intact lock on the hasp, that key you were mailed is a perfect fit.”
I reached in my pocket for the mystery key. “Why’d Mrs. Taylor send me this? The accompanying note to keep it safe was cryptic to say the least.” I glanced around the remote location. “Never in a million years would I have thought to search for her Bluebird Fund. It wasn’t real to me.”
“I believe it was a matter of timing. Our forensic accountants discovered that Lettie Taylor’s investment accounts went dry the Thursday before your meeting. She knew her wealth disappeared. Whether she suspected her family, we’ll never know. Clearly, she thought her house wasn’t a safe hiding place for the key. Here’s my guess. She reached out to you because she trusted you. She mailed you the key and invited you to visit.”
“Seems like I should’ve had a record of the appointment on my calendar. Granted, my thoughts from Monday are gone, but I remember the weekend and the week before fine.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, too. What if she called and demanded your immediate attention? The timing of her call to your office early Monday morning supports that theory.”
“That works. I don’t like how she used me, but she certainly did, all along. I had no clue of her double life.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. People get conned every day. It’s unfortunate, but it keeps me employed.”
Suddenly I felt better. This was Martinez’s moment. He never doubted the money was here. “Here’s the key. You may have the honors.”
“Thanks.” Martinez took the key from my gloved hand and inserted the key in the lock. It clicked open, and we cheered. The seal broke with a rusty creak. Inside the barrel was a large, clear plastic bag holding stacks of bills, other papers, and several sleeves of coins. “Jackpot!” I said as Martinez lifted the money sack out.
“Hmm,” he said, peering inside the drum. “I think we found Harm Taylor.”
I glanced at the second clear bag. This one held ashes. “Yep. That’s my guess, too.”
“You’re really good at finding things.” Martinez replaced the money, sealed the can, and called for backup. “Let’s warm up in the car while we wait.”
I followed him through the woods to the vehicle. “We found the Bluebird Fund. That’s awesome.”
“This development will close out the case. The forensic accountant identified offshore accounts in Melanie and Raymond’s names, and the combined amount matches what went missing from Mrs. Taylor’s investment accounts.”
I considered that. Melanie and Raymond stole two million from their grandmother, but they’d wanted more. “They almost had it all.”
“They had it all and blew it,” Martinez said as he steadied me over a fallen log. Suddenly the wintery meadow felt summertime warm as he drew me close. “Hope I’m not crossing the line here,” he said. “This case is over. I’ve been wanting to do this since we met.”
“Do what?’ My heart explored a faster rhythm. “Are you talking about this?”
I leaned in and kissed him.
“Yeah,” he said a bit later. “We’re on the same wavelength, Cleo. Hope I can take you out to a celebration dinner when we break free this evening.”
Dinner. And the kiss had been nice. It was probably too soon. But why should everything march along on an ordered timeline? I could be spontaneous.
I held his gloved fingers and strolled to the car, a song in my heart. “Absolutely.”
~*~
Cleopatra’s adventures begin in the books of the series: In For a Penny, On the Nickel, and Dime if I Know.
About the Author
Southern author Maggie Toussaint writes mystery, suspense, and dystopian fiction. Her work won the Silver Falchion Award for best mystery, the Readers’ Choice Award, and the EPIC Award. Under her name and her pen name of Rigel Carson, she’s published sixteen novels as well as several short stories and novellas. The latest book in her paranormal mystery series, Dadgummit, released August 1, 2017. Maggie serves as Chapter President for Southeast Mystery Writers of America and as Vice-President for Low Country Sisters In Crime.
Connect with Maggie at the following sites:
Email: [email protected]
Website: http://www.maggietoussaint.com
Blog: http://mudpiesandmagnolias.blogspot.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/MaggieToussaintAuthor
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/MaggieToussaint
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Newsletter signup: http://www.maggietoussaint.com
Books by Maggie Toussaint
Cleopatra Jones Mystery Series
In for a Penny
On the Nickel
Dime If I Know
No Quarter (novella)
Dreamwalker Mystery Series
Gone and Done It
Bubba Done It
Doggone It
Dadgummit
Single Title Mysteries
Death, Island Style
Murder in the Buff
Mossy Bog Romantic Suspense series
Muddy Waters
Hot Water
Rough Waters
Single Title Romantic Suspense
House of Lies
No Second Chance
Seeing Red
The Guardian of Earth series
(writing as Rigel Carson)
G-1
G-2
G-3
Short Stories and Novellas
“High Noon at Dollar Central”
“Really, Truly Dead”
“Turtle Tribbles”
Cookbook
KP Authors Cook Their Books
Multi-Author Boxed Sets
Sleuthing Woman: 10 First-in-Series Mysteries
Sleuthing Women II: 10 Mystery Novella
WHAT THE WIDOW KNEW
A Kali O’Brien Mystery Novella
By Jonnie Jacobs
In this novella addition to the best-selling Kali O’Brien legal mystery series, attorney Kali O’Brien takes on the case of a young widow accused of murdering her much older, and very wealthy, husband. As evidence mounts and other possible suspects are eliminated, Kali’s doubts about her client’s innocence grow. As if that weren’t troubling enough, Kali is also grappling with her feelings for longtime boyfriend Detective Bryce Keating.
ONE
I was deep into the monthly billing sheets—a project I hated—when Jared buzzed me on the phone.
“Hey, boss, there’s someone here to see you, but she doesn’t have an appointment. Do you have time?”
“Who is it?”
I will grab at any excuse to put off the routine tasks of legal office management. Besides, I was curious. “Have her come in.”
I cleared my desktop, stuffing the billing sheets into a drawer and straightening the collection of notepads and pens scattered across my desk, then slipped back into my shoes. It would probably have been wise to run a comb through my hair, as well, but I didn’t want to be caught mid-action acting like some self-conscious teenager.
Jared gave a pro forma knock on the door, then opened it without waiting for a response, and ushered in my visitor.
She was several years younger than me—in her early thirties if I had to guess—with honey blonde hair that fell in soft curls below her shoulders, and eyelashes as long and thick as a mascara model’s. She was stylishly dressed in a slim skirt and form-fitting jersey top that was a bit too revealing to be considered business attire.
I stood and held out my hand. “Hello. I’m Kali O’Brien.”
She smiled nervously and shook my hand. “Ariel Larson.”
“What can I do for you, Ms. Larson?” I asked when we were seated.
“It’s Mrs. Larson, but you can call me Ariel.”
My eyes slid reflexively to the flashy diamond on her left hand —a diamond so large it had to be a nuisance to wear. I couldn’t imagine how I’d missed it, especially since rings were on my mind these days. Bryce was pushing hard for an answer—and a firm date.
Ariel smoothed her skirt. “I’m not sure where to begin.” She took a breath. “I guess the bottom line is that I need your help.”
Most people who seek out attorneys needed help of some kind so that wasn’t surprising. “What sort of help?”
“I get the feeling the police think I murdered my husband.”
That got my attention. “I see,” I said, although I didn’t. Not really. “I’m sorry for your loss. How are you holding up?”
