Emmie and Eli solemnly unpacked the basket, leaned over the sides of the pens and presented the treats to the animals. Emmie had spent a good half hour in creative concentration, kneeling on a kitchen chair, her tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth, arranging apple slices in concentric circles on paper plates, slathering them with peanut butter and then pressing pretzel sticks into the sticky surface like spokes on bicycle wheels.
The animals tore her artwork apart in a matter of seconds. Such grunting and schnuffling and wagging of quirky little tails. I think Wilbur’s jaws stuck together briefly, but it didn’t stop him from making happy pig noises. But the best sound was Emmie’s giggling. My sweet girl.
I clung to Tarq and blinked back tears for the second time that morning. He just patted my hand the way old men do and cleared his throat.
Eli guffawed, his new teeth too big for his mouth, his freckles popping in the dim light, and pointed at the Terminator. Peanut butter jiggled on the goat’s beard while he chewed, his jaws working in a grinding sideways motion, his freaky yellow eyes half-closed in bliss.
When we left, the Terminator had helped himself to Orville’s empty paper plate and was contentedly gnawing the wadded mass of paper pulp, slobber hanging in a long string from his lips.
On the way back to the mansion, Eli and Emmie challenged each other to a race — skipping only, although their techniques varied widely — and left us old fogies in the dust.
“She’s adapting just fine,” Tarq said.
I could only nod in reply.
CHAPTER 21
The day flew past in surges of busyness. One of my greatest satisfactions was that Tarq relaxed. The kids just accepted him. No explanations necessary. And it turned out that Dwayne and Tarq were already acquainted. I shouldn’t have been surprised, considering how long both had lived in May County. They sat off to the side — Dwayne’s leg propped on a footstool — and dabbled in intermittent conversation. I considered the possibility that Tarq may have been one of Dwayne’s moonshine customers.
The other satisfaction — maybe it was more of a relief — was that Walt also seemed at ease, in spite of our conversation last night. I caught him watching me a few times, our gazes meeting above the flurry of excited smaller people, and his eyes were clear, open. I knew it meant a lot to him to see his boys so happy.
We crashed the gifts first — because there would be no peace until we did. We let everyone go all at once, and wrappings seemed to swirl through the air like chaff among the exclamations. Boots and coats and hats were tried on and clomped around in, candy was stuffed into mouths until Clarice barked a halt to that particular indulgence, and books were cracked open before being shoved away for later.
Dwayne scored a major coup with hand-carved slingshots for each boy. His face split into the widest grin I’d ever seen as the boys mobbed him, clamoring their thanks.
He gave Clarice and me delicately carved wood chain bracelets, each link whole and intersecting the adjacent links. He’d carved them from a single piece of wood, but through the growth rings so they held beautiful golden variations in color, and they were polished to a lustrous patina. To Emmie, he gave a bird whistle that matched mine.
I kissed Dwayne on the cheek, and he flushed deep red underneath his beard.
And then we ate. A lot.
I sat back and listened to the chatter, watched the rows of animated faces. So many mixed histories, mixed ethnicities, mixed cruelties experienced. It was one carefree moment in their young lives, and I wanted it to last forever. Thomas gave me a thumbs-up from the other end of the table, and I grinned back at him.
Just as quickly, almost on cue, it seemed — although they did linger to scarf down their dessert — we were deserted. Clarice and Emmie and I glanced at each other across the empty expanse of dirty dishes and tossed napkins.
Emmie slid off her chair and went to the window. I followed her.
“What are they doing?” Emmie wrinkled her nose which was pressed against the glass.
All the males, regardless of age, were either setting up targets or shooting at them. Slingshot bands whizzed in blurs as projectiles of increasing size zinged through the air, falling in a scattered hail all over the lawn. There was a cacophony of hooting and hollering, and it didn’t just come from the younger set.
“Somebody’s going to get hurt,” I muttered.
“It’s called testosterone, sweetie.” Clarice took Emmie’s hand and led her back to the table.
Our sport was called clearing the dishes, but we probably enjoyed it just as much. Especially once Clarice started treating us to renditions of Broadway show tunes in her raspy ex-smoker’s singing voice. Emmie and I were shocked and amazed and just about rolling on the floor with side-splitting laughter.
Who knew? Hidden talents.
oOo
I was in a lovely, dark, soft, snuggly tunnel. And I had a deep-seated sense of contentment, like a mole. I rolled onto my other hip and curled tighter around the pillow.
My mouth tasted rotty, and my teeth felt like little emery board tiles lined up in a row. No doubt caused by the overconsumption of certain old-fashioned candies. I smacked my lips and swallowed. I couldn’t remember if I’d brushed and flossed or not before collapsing into bed. But I wasn’t going to let a little thing like tooth decay keep me from slipping back into delicious slumber.
I lay still for a minute, but the reason I’d woken in the first place relentlessly pulsed through my outer layers. A phone was ringing. In the dark. From the tote bag under my bed.
I groaned and flung an arm into the cold air lurking beyond the comforter. I squinted against the blue light of the phone’s lit screen and punched the answer button.
“Yeah?” I croaked.
“Nora,” a voice boomed.
I jerked wide awake. “Who is this? What do you want?” I thrashed my way out of the blankets and sat up, breathing hard. Other than the eerie glow from the phone, the room was pitch black.
“I was just having a conversation with your friend, Lawyer Roe, and your name came up.”
I pulled the phone away to check the time — 4:17 a.m. “What do you want?” I repeated, my throat scratchy.
“Since he’s being uncooperative, I’m going to have to take more drastic measures,” the voice said.
“Don’t you dare,” I gritted out. “I’m the one you need to talk to.”
“What a good idea. Come join the party. You know better than to bring your friends, don’t you?” He hung up.
I scrambled out of bed. Think, think, think.
It was a voice I didn’t recognize, but I had to assume he was calling from Tarq’s house. Why? Was Tarq’s cabin way out in the woods easier to find than Mayfield? Or did the guy know I had people here with me while Tarq was alone? The friends comment — maybe he was aware of my former surveillance detail.
I hopped around the room pulling on clothes. That thing Des had said about a handgun — I should have taken his advice.
I jammed my feet into my boots, left tying the laces for later, and snatched up my tote bag. All my paperwork was spread out in the attic, and I didn’t want to take the time to grab it. What would I need, anyway?
My brain. It was all I had. Come on, Nora, think.
I rushed along the hall and tripped down the half flight of stairs to the kitchen. I certainly wasn’t quiet, but everyone was so exhausted they wouldn’t have heard a freight train if it rumbled through the mansion. Clarice wasn’t even snoring from behind her closed bedroom door, which is saying something.
The Subaru started on the first try even though the air was bitterly cold. Good girl. The finest prickles of frozen fog drifted like dust through the headlight beams. It was like driving through a grainy black and white movie.
I wrenched the steering wheel through potholes with one hand and dialed Des with the other. Nothing like having the sheriff for a next door neighbor. He could get to Tarq before I could, protected by his Kevlar vest, guns blazing.
>
Except his very polite voicemail message came on the line.
“Wake up!” I hit redial and bit my tongue as the station wagon bumped up onto the asphalt of the county road.
I laid rubber and caught the back end just before it fishtailed out of control.
Again Des’s voicemail. Rats.
“Tarq’s house. Please, please, please,” I yelled at the beep. “I’m going, but I need you. I think he’s being held hostage.” I threw the phone back into my bag.
CHAPTER 22
The three blue reflectors came in handy. I skidded into a tight turn and shot up over the trench that served as the welcome mat to Tarq’s driveway. Should I be quiet? Sneak up on whoever was threatening Tarq and me?
I snapped off the headlights and let the car bump over the rutted track across the meadow. A dark-colored Ford Explorer, not new, was angled behind Tarq’s old pickup under the carport. It was parked in such a way that it couldn’t be entirely blocked in, but I snugged the station wagon up close to the SUV so the vehicle’s owner would have some trouble with a hasty getaway.
Faint yellow stripes shone through gaps between the curtains on the front windows. No flutter, no one peeking out.
I needed something to use as a weapon. Clarice was perpetually prepared, so there was probably a tire iron and jack in the back, but I’d have to clank around to find them. My tote bag was heavy enough, but it’d be the first thing the phone call man would take away from me — there probably wouldn’t be time for a good windup before beaning him with it.
I popped open the glove compartment, hoping for an ice scraper. Instead, the tiny bulb inside glinted off the black metal barrel of a small gun resting atop the proof of insurance and registration. I blinked.
And then the memory whacked me upside the head. Bodie’s gun.
When Dwayne had caught Bodie allegedly poaching on Mayfield property, the boy had had a gun. He’d claimed to be hunting rabbits. I had a vague recollection of asking Clarice to take custody of the gun just to get it out of the equation until we figured out how volatile Bodie might be while he was coming off his meth high.
And Clarice had stashed it in her glove compartment. Good grief. I’d forgotten all about it, and so had she, apparently.
I could have been target practicing earlier, right alongside the boys and their slingshots. Actually, that probably wouldn’t have been a good idea.
I slid my hand into the glove box and pulled out the gun. It felt smooth and heavy. This wasn’t a good idea either. But I didn’t have time to reconsider. I had to get to Tarq.
I shoved the gun into the back waistband of my jeans, up under my shirt, sweatshirt and jacket. Isn’t that what they did in the movies? I was lumpy with all my layers already. What was another bulge?
I clicked the car door closed as quietly as possible and snuck around the back of the cabin. The kitchen door was probably unlocked, as it had been earlier, but it also operated on noisy, rusted hinges. There was no way to get into the house unannounced.
So I opted for speed. I stuck a finger under the screen door frame, pulled it open just enough to turn the knob to the wood door, then flung them both open simultaneously and charged into the kitchen.
The empty kitchen.
“Welcome, Nora,” the voice called. “Step into the living room, hands in front of you.”
I stretched my fingers past the doorjamb, then took another step and winced as the hard, cold end of a chunk of metal pressed against my skull just behind my ear.
“Good girl,” the voice said, and my tote bag was ripped off my shoulder.
I could see Tarq now. Under other circumstances, he would have looked like a typical old man who’d dozed off in his recliner while watching the late news. But his dark eyes were fierce, and no matter how sallow and saggy his skin was, there was nothing sleepy about him.
The man jabbed me in the back. “Sit.”
I stumbled forward and dropped into the other half of the matching recliner pair, separated from Tarq by a tiered coffee table that swayed under the weight of the books it bore. I kept on sinking, the chair apparently having no reliable bottom, and the footrest sprang up of its own accord, as though the gears inside the mechanism were stripped. It was about as comfortable as sitting in a five-gallon bucket, my knees as high as my shoulders, the gun in my waistband applying excruciating pressure against my spine. Every time I wriggled, I sank lower. I might as well have been hogtied.
But I got to study our assailant as he turned my tote bag upside down and dumped the contents on the floor. He was short and broad, his head far too small for his body and balanced on a spindly neck like a golf ball on a tee. But his feature of distinction was a nose which jutted out from between his eyes like a hatchet. A real schnoz, spectacular in a way that doubtlessly had incited bullying by the neighborhood children.
I had every reason to stare at the man, but I still felt a wash of embarrassment as though I should turn my eyes away from him. I could hear my mother’s voice in my head telling me it wasn’t polite, people couldn’t help how they looked. How well I knew that, having been teased at school myself.
But I kept staring. “What’s your name?” I blurted.
“What’s it to you?” he muttered, squatting and pawing through my many cell phones with his free hand. “You must be mighty popular.”
“So all my husband’s friends can reach me.”
The Nose snorted. “We’re not friends.” Sweat tracked down his forehead. He dashed a finger across his brow to wipe it away.
“You know who I am; you called me. Let’s be reciprocal,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Neil Byrnes,” Tarq announced from his recliner, loud and clear.
The Nose growled and stood. He shifted the gun to his other hand as though it was a strain on his arm. I wondered if he was ambidextrous. Was it just as easy to shoot a gun with one hand as with the other? I was trying to learn all I could about such things in lieu of the practicing I should have done.
“The major shareholder of Comet Consolidated, LLC,” Tarq continued.
Two pieces clicked together in my mind. Comet Consolidated ran the freight terminal business, leased the property from Skip. And Neil Byrnes had made fairly frequent appearances in Skip’s notebook. One and the same. He’d also been on Lee Gomes’s contact list, so it was a safe guess that Lee reported to The Nose in some capacity.
“Numero Nueve,” I murmured. So I owed this man money.
I gripped the recliner’s armrests and tried to stretch the kink out of my back. The Nose jerked the gun my direction. The cheeks that swept back from his nose twitched, blotched with reddish tension. His eyes darted from side to side, not settling on anything. A vein stood out on his neck. I’d be willing to wager that roughing people up wasn’t in his usual line of work. He flicked his tongue over his bottom lip as though testing the air temperature.
No more questions, I decided quickly. He appeared about to suffer a seizure, and that finger on the trigger—
From my low vantage point, I caught a glimpse of red winking from under the edge of Tarq’s battered sofa. The LED light of some electronic gadget. What did Tarq keep stashed under his sofa — an answering machine? Not one that worked, based on my previous experience trying to get ahold of him.
Then I recognized that rapid light sequence, as though it should be accompanied by clanging bells and a deluge of quarters. It was my bug detector. It must have skittered under the sofa when The Nose emptied my bag.
Something in the room was broadcasting a signal. Somebody was wearing a wire — and there was only one eligible somebody I could think of.
Or Tarq’s house had been bugged. We all knew just how easy it was to walk in.
Who was interested in recording this conversation for posterity? I changed my mind about keeping my mouth shut.
“How much do you want?” I asked.
“What?” His Adam’s apple bobbed in his skinny neck. The red blotches had crept through his ski
n, down into his collar.
“To make this little problem go away.” I tried to sound businesslike and confident, as though we were discussing a transaction across a conference table.
“Don’t do that!” he screamed.
I flinched and slipped deeper in the chair, the handgun that had been tucked in my waistband now a sharp probe in the vicinity of my right shoulder blade. “Do what?” I croaked.
“I’m aboveboard,” The Nose hollered. “No skimming, no snitching. You have no proof otherwise.” He hefted the gun, bent his elbow, remembered to point it at me.
And yet the red LED lights under the sofa continued to blink merrily, and I knew he was lying. But about which parts? Or all of it? It was a good thing he couldn’t see the evidence of his infidelity flashing away among the dust bunnies.
“Right,” I said. “We’ll just call it a commission, a finder’s fee.” An absolute bluff. Because if we were measuring lying tonight, my nose would be as big as his.
Plaster dust exploded over my head. And then the blast blared through my eardrums. But all I could see were my ankles, straight up in the air. Weird how my senses were bombarded all at once, and yet in an illogical sequence.
I blinked and choked on the descending grit. My whole head rang with numbness. I rolled out of the collapsed recliner and decided lying flat on the floor was a good idea. Grungy green shag carpet never felt so good.
When things started sifting into place, I heard Tarq in the throes of a coughing fit and squinted through the haze, trying to spot him.
The Nose was on the floor just a few feet from me. I could’ve touched him if I wanted to. His eyes were screwed shut in two tight wrinkled knobs. A pair of shoes, legs, another hand holding a gun, and I glanced up into the smugly satisfied face of Lee Gomes.
“You,” I squeaked.
“And me, Ms. Sheldon. Sit up. I want to see who I’m talking to,” another voice said.
Another pair of shoes — burnished cordovan bespoke shoes supporting thick ankles clad in pinstriped stocks sticking out from under cuffed wool dress pants.
Grab & Go (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 2) Page 16
