Lucy knew Wylie wasn’t referring to their night in front of the fire. “I don’t know what to think. I think Mitch and his friend were as befuddled as I am. Why in the world does Jonathan need so much security? What is this all about? Do you think Jonathan was bringing people illegally into the country or bringing in drugs, and that’s why he needed a safe house? I am never going to understand this, Wylie.”
“If you want my opinion, and it’s just my opinion, I think it’s all about money. The amounts of money the feds told you about are not chicken feed. Always follow the money. I think this is about very large sums of money. Money laundering. I’d stake my bank account on it. Think about it, Lucy. He moves money, different amounts each time, say from England to France, to maybe Latvia, three places total. Normal transactions. No one is going to pay attention to three transactions. It’s done twenty-four/seven. Then maybe on to the Channel Islands or maybe the Marshall Islands. Multiply that by say fifty transactions, different locations, different amounts, and you come up with kazillions of dollars. All he needs is one man in the wire transfer room on his payroll, and your guy is golden. God alone knows what his cut is. I bet he has safe houses all over the globe. That house in Watchung is just one of many. If he smells trouble, he’s gone. I bet you ‘Jonathan’ has dozens of identities. You following me?”
“Yes. Yes, I am. You could be right, Wylie. It makes sense. He wouldn’t want to give up his citizenship, but if he did, and he married me, he would always be able to come back here if he wanted to. Assuming no one was on his trail. Yes, I think you’re right. The last thing he ever expected was for me to catch on. I wouldn’t have, either, if those agents hadn’t come up to me that day when I was running. In a million years I never would have believed any of this. Never. I feel so stupid,” Lucy said vehemently.
Wylie’s voice was soothing when he said, “There’s no need for you to feel stupid, Lucy. The guy’s a slick con. He worked overtime to cover everything up. It doesn’t matter how you were alerted, you were, and now the playing field has shifted.”
Lucy ran her hands through her still-damp hair. “For God’s sake, Wylie, I’m a lawyer. I should have picked up on something. Now that I think back, there were all kinds of clues. I was blind. The worst thing is, I don’t think I was ever in love with him, and yet I was going to marry him. I think I was going to marry him. Maybe I wasn’t,” she dithered. “I sure put off addressing those wedding invitations long enough. I am almost one hundred percent convinced I would not have gone through with it.” There, she’d said the words aloud, and she meant them.
Wylie’s chest puffed out. He smiled. “I don’t think you would have gone through with it either. You know why. You told me the guy doesn’t like dogs. You’d never get rid of Sadie, would you?”
“No more than you would get rid of Coop. You know what, Wylie, you’re really a nice guy. I like you a lot. Bushels in fact. And, you make decent coffee, too. Your meat loaf ain’t half-bad either.”
Wylie’s chest puffed out even farther. He couldn’t wait to take this young woman home to meet his family. This was the one. He could feel it from the top of his head right down to his toes. At last he’d found the sock to mate to his shoe. His mother always said for every old shoe there’s an old sock. It wasn’t a very romantic saying, but he finally knew what she meant. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew that Lucy Baker would love him, warts and all, just as he would love her.
Wylie and Lucy both beamed when Jake entered the kitchen. “Are we doing lunch?” His voice was hopeful as his gaze roamed the neat, tidy kitchen.
“No, we’re doing coffee. Wylie and I are going over to Rachel’s and Nellie’s houses to see what we can scrounge up. If you pick all the meat off that ham bone, I can make some split pea or bean soup for supper, or I can make us some pot pies. You decide while we go on the hunt for Thanksgiving dinner. I feel like a Pilgrim, don’t you, Wylie?”
Wylie threw back his head and laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. Lucy and Wylie dressed as warmly as they could, layering sweatshirts and parkas. The boots were the last to go on. Lucy fingered the keys to her house in the pocket of her jacket before she pulled on fuzzy, pink mittens. Adjusting the scarf around her neck and over the lower part of her face, she said, “Okay, I’m ready. I want to go to my house to get some clean clothes first. Rachel’s house is closest to mine, so let’s hit it after my house. If we find enough food, we might not have to go to Nellie’s.”
Wylie nodded as he opened the door. Snow and cold air swooshed into the foyer. It took both of them to pull the heavy oak door shut behind them.
It was ten-thirty when the couple exited the house.
“I’ll go first,” Wylie said. Step into the footprints I leave. It will be easier. Jeez, this snow is up to my thighs.”
It took them thirty minutes to fight their way through the snow and wind across the wide expanse of yard to Lucy’s house. Both of them were exhausted when Lucy fitted the key into the lock with numb hands. The moment they were inside, Wylie stomped his feet before kicking off his boots to dump the snow out of them. His wool socks were cold and wet. So were Lucy’s.
“I have socks,” Lucy said. “Dry out our boots while I get my clothes and the socks. Check my thermostat, Wylie, and set the faucet in the laundry room sink to drip. I don’t want my pipes to freeze up.”
“My feet are like ice,” Lucy said when she returned with the socks. Let’s put them in the dryer so they’re warm when we put them on.” The clothes in her hand went into a plastic bag she tied around her waist.
“We’re crazy, you know that, right?” Wylie said five minutes later as he pulled on a pair of Lucy’s socks. “I hope you have spares because the same thing is going to happen when we get to Rachel’s house and then, if necessary, Nellie’s.”
“You’re right. Wait here.” Lucy ran back upstairs and returned with a bundle of rolled-up socks. She added them to the plastic bag.
“Okay, heat’s fine, water’s dripping. Let’s go.”
Lucy opened the door, the arctic chill, driving snow, and the fierce wind drove her backward. Wylie stiff-armed her as they fought together to close the door and lock it.
“Same drill, Lucy, walk in my footprints. I’m going in a straight line, catercorner to Rachel’s house. Stay close,” Wylie shouted, to be heard over the ferocious wind.
Easier said than done, Lucy thought as she struggled to step into the indentations Wylie made in the snow. The problem was, he had long-legged strides, and by the time she was ready to plop her left foot down, she fell down instead. Wylie picked her up seven times before they made it across the street to Rachel Muller’s house. Both of them were breathing like racehorses when Wylie finally made it to the overhang of the walk-through door leading into the garage. Inside, they both fell to their knees, struggling to breathe normally.
“This is crazy, Wylie. Why can’t we just eat hot dogs tomorrow? Thanksgiving is about giving thanks, not about food. God, I wish I was sunning my butt in Florida or some tropical paradise.”
Wylie groaned. “C’mon, we have to get in the house. I’ll turn the heat up to warm us. We’ll change socks and dry out our boots before we head out again.”
Lucy started to laugh then and couldn’t stop as Wylie led her into the kitchen.
“What’s so funny?” Wylie demanded as he cranked up the thermostat.
“Remember when I told you I thought we could come here or Nellie’s house and make out away from Jake? Boy, was that ever wishful thinking.”
Wylie flopped down on one of the kitchen chairs. He was still breathing hard as he struggled to get out of his ski jacket. “If you told me right now you wanted to hit the sheets, I’d have to tell you no can do.”
“Don’t give it another thought. I don’t have the strength to take off my clothes. This is so damn crazy. Tell me again why we’re here.”
“Because nobody eats hot dogs on Thanksgiving. I’m trying to be a good host here, Lucy, even if we’re s
tealing food from our beloved neighbors. Ask yourself if you want to see Jake waste away to nothing. Then there’s Coop. He’ll go ballistic if he doesn’t get his meat loaf. I live for that dog.”
“Ahhh.” Lucy sighed. “It’s getting warmer. Tell you what, Wylie. Find a towel, and I’ll rub your feet if you rub mine. Then we’ll put on warm socks.”
“Okay, but I can’t get up. It took us twenty minutes to cross the street, but I’ve had four-hour workouts that didn’t leave me this drained. You must be exhausted. I’d come over there and sit with you, but I can’t move.”
“Stay where you are. I am beyond exhausted. Let’s just sit here. Don’t talk. Dream. Do anything but move or talk. Whatever you do, don’t go to sleep.”
“Okay.”
Then Lucy broke her own order. “We don’t even know if Rachel has a turkey or a chicken in her freezer. What if this was for nothing, Wylie?”
“I’ll kill myself. If there is one, let’s not go to Nellie’s house, okay? God, I hate snow, this snow in particular. Hey, I’m starting to sweat.”
“Shut up, Wylie. I told you not to talk. If you keep talking, you won’t have to kill yourself, I’ll kill you.”
“Oooh, I love it when you talk like that.” Wylie slid off the chair and rolled over to where Lucy was sitting. “If we get married, do you think we’ll fight? Will we ever go to bed angry with each other? How many kids do you want? We should get a cat, too, and maybe a bird. A real menagerie.”
“Yeah, okay. You sure do talk a lot.”
“That’s why I am going to make an outstanding teacher. Come on, Lucy, we can’t stay here. Let’s get this show on the road. I want to go home and take a nap.”
“Wuss,” Lucy said, staggering to her feet. She peeled off her jacket, tossed it on the floor, and ripped off her cold, wet socks. She tossed dry socks from her sack at Wylie and told him to empty out their boots.
Together, they checked Rachel Muller’s deep freezer in the garage. “Oooh, tell me this isn’t the mother lode,” Wylie said, moving freezer packages. “And she labels everything, too, with the date.”
Lucy watched as Wylie withdrew two ten-pound capons and set them on the floor. Five packages of ground sirloin came out next. “What else do you want? She has a ton of frozen vegetables, even sugared sweet potatoes with marshmallows. Told you this was the mother lode,” he said as he piled up packages of frozen vegetables.
Lucy looked at the pile of food. “We can eat off the chickens for a day or so with leftovers. The ground sirloin is for Coop. Let’s take a pork loin. We can always come back if we run out. Take some bread and those Sara Lee cakes. It might take a while for delivery trucks to make it to the supermarkets. We’ll be okay because we still haven’t explored Nellie’s freezer. God, I am so glad we don’t have to trudge all the way down there. I don’t think I could make it.”
Wylie pointed to the pile of food on the floor. Frozen food was heavy. “How are we going to get this home?”
“I guess we have to bag it and tie it around our necks or our waists. Hey, look, there’s a sled hanging on the wall. Rachel’s grandson comes to visit, so I guess the sled is for him.”
“Nah, we don’t have anything to tie it on with. Besides, it will be more trouble to pull the sled than it will be to drag the sacks. We’ll double some garbage bags and just drag them behind us. Unless you have a better idea.”
“Nope. Let’s do it.”
“It should be easier going home since we made tracks coming here.”
“Yeah, well, those tracks are probably full of snow by now,” Lucy grumbled.
Back inside Rachel’s house, Lucy dressed, rummaged for plastic sacks for the food as Wylie turned the thermostat down to seventy and let the faucet in the kitchen sink drip. Within ten minutes they were ready for the trek home, with each of them dragging one of the sacks of food.
“You’re right, Lucy, I feel like a damn Pilgrim on the hunt. I’d beat my chest, but I’m too damn tired.”
Lucy knew Wylie was talking, but his voice was carried away on the wind. Her head down, she concentrated on stepping into the tracks he made. She lost track of time and was so exhausted she bumped into him when he came to an abrupt stop. She was colder than she’d ever been in her life. She couldn’t feel her feet inside the high rubber boots. All she knew was they were full of snow. “What’s wrong?” she managed to gasp.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, but I overshot my house. We’re at Nellie’s house.”
“Nellie’s house!” Lucy screamed. “Nellie’s house!” she screamed again.
“Lucy, I can’t see in front of my face. Yeah, Nellie’s house. It looks like we’re in her driveway. I know it’s her house because I can see that metal sun sculpture she has nailed to the garage door under the overhang. You know what else. Someone is here because there are footprints going around to the back.”
“Who cares? It’s probably Nellie’s grandson. More than likely he got stranded at the train station and made it here. He lives in South Plainfield. Let’s go, Wylie. Get your bearings and move. I can’t believe we’re at Nellie’s house. Weren’t you a Boy Scout?”
“No, I wasn’t a Boy Scout. I was too busy mowing lawns, shoveling snow, and delivering papers. God, I hate snow—or did I say that already! I feel like a damn packhorse,” Wylie said as he turned around and moved across the virgin snow toward his own house. Lucy followed him blindly.
If it hadn’t been snowing so heavily, or if the wind hadn’t suddenly ratcheted up, one or the other of them might have seen the curtain on the upstairs bedroom window move as a man peered out of it.
13
At seven o’clock that morning Jonathan St. Clair let his gaze sweep the hotel room he’d been staying in. He grimaced at the cowhide suitcase, thinking of the cheap European clothes inside. He fumbled around inside until his fingers touched the canvas fanny pack that held numerous passports, matching IDs, and a stack of CD-Rs. The laptop glared up at him. Take it or not take it. Better to leave it, but first he had to dismantle it, just in case he wasn’t able to return to the hotel.
Working with an economy of motion, Jonathan ripped out the motherboard and stuffed it into his fanny pack. Now, he was ready to go.
Just minutes ago, he’d used the laptop to access MapQuest to get directions to Lucy’s house. But instead of listing Lucy’s address, he’d substituted the words, Golden Acres Shopping Center. He copied down the information, then deleted the request.
Jonathan walked back over to the window. Suddenly, he felt nervous, uneasy. He didn’t like the feeling. Not at all. He felt bile rising in his throat, the heavy breakfast threatening to erupt. Was he losing his edge? “Three strikes and you’re out,” he muttered.
Never a serene person, he realized he was fast coming up on strike three.
First it was Lucy and her strange behavior. The second was his decision to put his business on hold and fly to the States. Third was this unprecedented snowstorm and the house in Watchung that was compromised. Maybe he was on strike four and too stupid to recognize it. He shivered with the draft coming in around the windows. So much for hermetically sealed windows.
Jonathan shivered, not with cold but a mixture of fear and apprehension.
According to MapQuest, it was a little over four miles to the shopping center near to where Lucy lived. Knock off a quarter of a mile, and it was still almost four miles. Would he survive in the weather outside? Not unless he had a pair of boots. He shivered again as he imagined being brought down for lack of a pair of storm boots. Well, that wasn’t going to happen.
His heavy wool coat over his arm, Jonathan marched to the door and thrust it open. He half expected to see the maids working in the hallway, but it was empty. That meant no one would be getting clean sheets.
The elevator was full when he stepped in and rode to the lobby. He wasn’t surprised to see the milling crowds of people, some sleeping on the leather furniture or in the wooden chairs in the lobby restaurant. He took his t
ime as he meandered around looking at people’s feet, then at his own. Most of the men were wearing either Brooks Brothers tasseled loafers or wing tips like he was wearing.
Jonathan walked to the back entrance, hoping to see a door labeled MAINTENANCE. When he found it, he knocked softly and opened the door. The room was empty. Seeing no boots, he backed off and walked toward the glass doors that led out to the snow-filled parking lot, where hundreds of cars were parked every which way, all covered with mountains of snow. He didn’t know if it was his imagination or not, but it looked like the snow was abating somewhat.
He saw the maintenance workers then. Some with shovels, some with snowblowers. All were fighting a losing battle. All the men he could see wore high, rubber boots. Now, all he had to do was get a pair of those boots. Eventually, one or more of them would take a break, come indoors, and go to the maintenance room, where he would be waiting.
Jonathan backtracked and boldly walked toward the maintenance room, where he opened the door and walked inside as though he belonged there. As far as he could tell, no one paid him any attention. He held his breath to see if anyone followed him into the room demanding to know what he was doing. His sigh was mighty when nothing happened. He looked at his watch—7:30.
He waited.
It was nine o’clock when the door finally opened and two weary men stepped into the room. Jonathan watched from his position behind a tall metal cabinet as both men shed their plastic outerwear, winter clothing, and heavy, rubber boots. The taller of the two men rummaged in a bag on the floor and brought out a huge Thermos of coffee. He poured for both of them. Neither man said a word as they gulped at the hot drink. When they finished their coffee, the same man reached again into the canvas bag and brought out an ordinary-looking kitchen timer. Jonathan could hear the clicks on the timer as the man turned it on. He waited five minutes, then another five minutes before he stepped out from behind the metal cabinet. Both men were sound asleep, both snoring loudly. Cautiously, he removed both men’s boots, stepped into one pair, folding down the others and stuffing them into the canvas bag along with his wing tips. He looked back at the men. Neither had moved. He was almost to the door when he remembered he needed a hat. He ran back and snatched a wool cap off the table. His nose wrinkled at the cheap scent that wafted past his nose as he drew the hat down as far as it would go over his ears.
The Nosy Neighbor Page 19
