Gone South (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 3)

by Melanie Jackson

  Gone South

  by

  Melanie Jackson

  Version 1.2 – August, 2011

  Published by Brian Jackson at PubIt

  Copyright © 2011 by Melanie Jackson

  Discover other titles by Melanie Jackson at www.melaniejackson.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Prologue

  The sky was cloudy and the night dark, his palms sweaty and his coffee cold. He glanced out the window of the diner but saw little more than his own reflection in the glass. A streetlight lit the detritus in the gutter beside a newspaper vending machine. He checked his watch. It was fifteen minutes past the hour, that is if his cheap digital still kept accurate time. Late, as usual, he thought, drumming his nicotine-stained fingers on the Formica table top. He was dying for a smoke.

  “You want me to heat that up for you, mister?”

  He was startled by the sudden appearance of the waitress carrying a steaming pot of java. For the moment he couldn’t comprehend the simple question.

  “What do you want?”

  “Would you like me to freshen up your coffee?”

  “No.”

  He chanced being scalded by placing his palm over the top of his mug. All he wanted was to be left alone, that and for the person he’d been waiting for to arrive. He turned away hoping the waitress would leave, which mercifully she did.

  Not knowing what else to do with his nervous hands, he reached inside his coat after a cigarette he knew he would not be allowed to smoke inside the diner. He just wanted to hold the thing in his hand, maybe taste the unfiltered, tobacco-laced tip in his mouth. Instead, his nervous fingers lit upon a newspaper article he’d torn that morning from the back pages of the Duluth News Tribune.

  “Anthropologist Found Dead in Manitoba Outback,” the headline screamed. The picture that accompanied the article showed a group of heavily clothed individuals facing the camera and frowning. According to the caption, the picture had been taken in the town of McIntyre’s Gulch, Manitoba. The pretty girl on the far right was named Butterscotch Jones. The name had been circled. The man gazed at her picture, as he had several times that morning, before pocketing the worn and frayed newspaper clipping. He hadn’t seen her face in ten years, maybe twelve, but still he was sure it was her.

  Consulting his watch one last time, he decided he’d waited as long as he could. By standing he showed that he was short of stature and wore a rumpled, worn suit that looked like he’d slept in it. He dropped six bits on the table and made his way toward the door.

  He needed to get ahold of his contact, but he also needed to heed the warning to avoid using his cell phone. Fortunately, he remembered seeing a pay phone on the corner. As he made his way to the well-lit phone booth, his eyes scanned the darkness for danger. Seeing nothing to give him pause, he opened the accordion door and dropped a dime in the slot. He dialed the number from memory.

  Receiving no answer, he waited for the voicemail to pick up before slamming the receiver back into its cradle. Any message he left now would be found too late for his purposes. He exited the phone booth and lit a cigarette. The flame of his lighter temporarily impaired his night vision. He took several nervous puffs and began walking back to the diner. I’ve gotta get out of this racket, he thought. I’ve been pushin’ my luck too long. That’s when he noticed the car parked across the street with the two dark silhouettes sitting in the front seat.

  He stopped. The ignition of the car turned over. He tossed his cigarette into the gutter and turned to run. The lights of the car sprang to life as the car jumped away from the curb amid the squeal of rubber on asphalt.

  The lone figure made it only as far as the phone booth on the corner before the front right fender of the speeding automobile clipped him, hurling his body against the glass wall of the booth. Glass exploded at the concussive impact of the body. The light in the booth blew out. The man’s broken and torn body fell to the sidewalk like that of a ragdoll.

  The car came to a sudden stop at the curb. A scarred face turned to glance out the window at the fallen body. Then tires squealed and smoked as the car raced off into the night.

  The night fell silent again. Then that silence was broken by the sound of footsteps coming from a nearby alley. A man in a dark trench coat and hat, wearing practical black dress shoes, walked to the curb and knelt down beside the body. He checked for a pulse at the fallen man’s neck. Pulling a cell phone from his pocket, he flipped open the clamshell and speed-dialed a number.

  “This is Desoto,” he announced when his call was answered. “I need an ambulance rushed to the corner of Park and Grant. I’ve got a man down, badly injured after a hit-and-run incident.”

  He flipped the phone shut and consulted his watch. It was just approaching the hour. Checking the downed man’s watch he found that it was half an hour fast. He checked the man’s coat pockets and discovered a rumpled newspaper clipping. He clicked on a penlight and started to read.

  The name Butterscotch Jones had been circled.

  Chapter 1

  The Flowers, the Butcher of Minsk, and Big John were listening in on my call. The owner of the Lonesome Moose is our mayor and a big wheel in the Gulch. Of course, we are rather short of wheels of any kind, so being the biggest doesn’t mean a whole lot. Big John was mayor because he had a telephone and no one else wanted the job.

  Frankly, I was too stunned at what the voice in my ear was saying to even try to order them away. The person on the other end of the crackling line wasn’t one I had ever thought to hear from again.

  “Which hospital?” I asked. My voice was so calm considering I was speaking to a ghost.

  There was some noise, the phone changing hands.

  “Grace Memorial in Duluth,” the new voice was more competent though not compassionate. I guess the other end of the conversation had made the nurse think that compassion wasn’t needed.

  “Thank you for calling. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

  “Best hurry,” she said and hung up.

  I put the phone down too. I didn’t look up. I needed another minute to gather my thoughts.

  “You don’t look so good,” Big John said. “Bad news?”

  My father had found me. That was very bad news. However, that wasn’t what Big John meant and I saw no need to explain the potential trouble. Not yet.

  I tried to decide what to tell Big John. Our old selves don’t exist. We never ask each other about our pasts—when or where we were born, about former lovers or family, education or jobs. It never comes up. You are born again the day you move to the Gulch. You get a new name and a new birthday and a new occupation. Really, it was a lot like going into a witness protection program. Except without government approval. In fact, often with government disapproval.

  Having someone from my old life intrude was highly irregular.

  “My father is in the hospital. In Duluth. Hit and run. I guess it’s bad.” My voice was getting weaker. The Flowers pushed me into a chair and then urged me to put my head between my knees.

  “I didn’t know he was still alive,” Big John said. You would dent your truck if you backed into him. Until he spoke he was formidable. After that the image was ruined. Big John was a double helping of John Candy with a marshmallow heart. I could feel his sympathy. This didn’t seem the moment to tell him that life with father
was the stuff alcohol addictions were made of.

  “Neither did I.” My voice was muffled, but they heard me. “The Wings is still outside, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah. You want me to get him?”

  “Just tell him I need to get to Winnipeg. By tonight.”

  “Winnipeg?”

  “I need to call Chuck.” I sat up slowly and reached for the phone. I would call him at home. All calls to the RCMP office were recorded. That might not be good since we were trying to make it look like our relationship was casual.

  The Flowers and Big John shared a long look and Sasha departed, probably to fetch the Wings. Everyone liked the Mountie and more or less trusted him since they had little choice in the matter, but at the end of the day he was still the law and we were still the lawless. Distance should be maintained.

  “Maybe the Wings can fly you over the border.”

  “No. He said they are searching him every flight. If anyone will know how to get me across the border without trouble it will be Chuck.”

  We all made an effort not to look uneasy. There was no such thing as an easy border crossing these days.

  * * *

  Inspector Horace Charles Goodhead, of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, was cooking up a storm in the tiny kitchen of his tiny apartment in downtown Winnipeg. After receiving a voicemail from Butterscotch informing him that she would be stopping by to see him that night, he had immediately put in to take several days off work and hit the grocers to buy the makings for a lavish home-cooked meal. He couldn’t cook a lot of dishes, but he was great with this one menu. Additionally, he’d bought a fine California wine, candles, and the small gift of a diamond encrusted heart on a gold chain. Now the lasagna and garlic bread were in the oven and a salad was waiting for the balsamic vinaigrette. And for dessert, freshly baked chocolate cake from Annie’s Bakery. He couldn’t remember the last time his place had smelled so heavenly.

  Taking a quick break from the kitchen, he stopped by the small table that he’d prepared with the only two plates he owned that weren’t cracked or chipped. He’d set them upon a brand new, white table linen he’d gotten as a gift last Christmas, along with a milk bottle stuffed with flowers. He lit the two candles wedged into the tops of two beer bottles and gave his dingy utensils a quick polish with his shirttail. Then he arranged the small velvet box containing the necklace beside Butterscotch’s plate. All was now ready for a cozy dinner for two.

  The Mountie made a last check of the food and retired to his bedroom to dress. Looking at his bed, which he had made for the first time in weeks, using clean sheets even, he had to smile at the rose petals he’d thought to sprinkle over the comforter. He ventured to the closet to unwrap his dress uniform, fresh from the cleaners. He hadn’t worn the bright red tunic since a funeral for a comrade on the force. He hoped that it still fit.

  He’d buttoned the last gold button and even donned his hat before admiring his dashing appearance in the mirror of his bathroom.

  This was a first. Butterscotch never left the Gulch. He wanted everything to be special for her visit.

  Chapter 2

  My flight was uneventful, though I did some praying when I saw the roll of duct tape on the passenger’s seat. The Wings was kind enough to get me to Winnipeg without any stunt flying or smart remarks once he heard that my father was badly hurt and I was on my way to see him. He even offered me the loan of his car. The Wings kept a car in the city for the rare occasion when he had to stay over for business. At home, he drives a manly truck, meaning it is rusty with ripped upholstery and is without power steering. It is noticeable out in front of the pub because tourists aren’t exactly clogging our roads and the thing had more colors than a calico cat. In fact, two cars on the one paved street and we have a traffic jam, but this doesn’t negate my point about the truck being an eyesore. Auto maintenance wasn’t the Wings’ thing. Though sober when he flew, there was every chance that he was under the influence when he wasn’t in the air and his truck reflected this.

  We worry about drunk drivers, of course, but not until their breath is nearing eighty proof. There isn’t much to hit out in the Gulch except trees and rocks. You wanna kill your truck on a slab of rock? That’s fine by most Gulchers, as long as you don’t do it by running over their cabins on the way. I wanted to think that in the city Danny was more circumspect, but figured he probably still had a memorable vehicle. That wasn’t good when you were trying to avoid attention. Anyway, if I was stopped at the border, I didn’t want to implicate him in my troubles, so I said no thanks.

  I’d had to leave a message on Chuck’s machine, but he had obviously gotten home in time to get the dispatch and meet me at the airport. His familiar face at the side of the runway was a relief for a couple of reasons. I rarely drive these days and didn’t want to rent a car. I had ID but with everything computerized these days, they might catch on to it being fake. A taxi to the States would also have been expensive and too memorable. I’m sure there were people who took taxis to the border, but probably not many.

  But it was great to see Chuck for another reason. Being in the city had me disturbed. It was stranger in a strange land syndrome. It would have been better if Max was there to keep me company, but that was just impossible to arrange. Max doesn’t fly well and would cause panic in the city. And how the heck would I get him over the border? If he was seen, some gun-happy border patrol agent would probably shoot him. So my wolf was staying with the Flowers and had social visits arranged with Wendell and Madge while I was gone. I knew he’d be fine among friends, but it felt weird to be without him. At home, Max was my shadow.

  “Chuck,” I said, giving him a hug and enjoying his aftershave. “You look wonderful. You weren’t at a funeral, were you?” I asked worriedly as I took in the uniform.

  He smoothed his coat, looking a bit uncertain.

  “Uh—no. Let me help you with that bag.”

  I let him take the bag though it was light. I hadn’t packed anything but the basics.

  Cities don’t scare most people. Even folks who live in small towns watch enough TV that they know what to expect when they visit. But I don’t watch television much and it was all strange and disconcerting. I hadn’t been to Winnipeg in four years. Things had changed. In the Gulch, nothing changes.

  There were more loitering poor than I remembered—homeless people, I guessed. This shouldn’t have surprised me, given the global economy, but it did. No one is homeless in the Gulch. At least no more homeless than anyone else. A lot of us lived there because we were displaced persons of one persuasion or another. Still, we all had shelter. And food, though it was plain and we often had to go out and hunt it down ourselves. There was only one loiterer in town and we kept him off the street when it was cold. The rest of us did no pointless lingering. There wasn’t time for it.

  It also seemed odd that everything in the city was labeled. We have place names, too, of course. But all the tall buildings had actual signs and numbers on them. Maybe you had to do that when everything looked the same so people didn’t get confused about where they were going, but it felt invasive, like the government was watching, marking everyone and everything. It was all very square and vertical and contained. No one looked up and smiled. Even the cement-bound trees that edged the streets looked to be in agony as they were slowly poisoned by traffic fumes and strangled with concrete.

  The city smelled of cars. Many, many cars, and it was frightfully noisy. The blend of engines and human voices grated on my ears. It would be even worse in the States and I had a moment of hesitation about trying to go on with my plan.

  And weirdest of all, night never really fell. It stayed bright and I couldn’t see the stars. The moon was probably there somewhere but hidden by buildings. I no longer knew which way was north. I was torn equally between the impulses to hide at Chuck’s and to run back home and hope that no one else found me there.

  “I take it this isn’t a romantic visit,” Chuck said finally. We had been very quiet si
nce leaving the airport.

  Forced out of my brooding, I relaxed my grip on the car door and really looked at him. He was in dress uniform and aftershave. It occurred to me that he might have thought that this was a booty call.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to say much on the phone.”

  Chuck nodded. We weren’t certain if his phone was being tapped. The official surveillance seemed to have dropped off after the explosion of the black box, but we couldn’t be certain that we were completely in the clear.

  “It’s my father. He’s in the hospital in Duluth. He was hit by a car. Probably deliberately,” I added, though neither my father nor the nurse had said this. “He may die from his injuries.”

  Whatever Chuck had been expecting me to say, it wasn’t this.

  “I’m so sorry,” Chuck answered at once and squeezed my knee briefly. He was too good a driver to leave his hands off the wheel for too long though.

  “I hope I haven’t ruined any plans you have for tonight.”

  “No, not at all.”

  But I thought maybe he was lying and began to feel bad.

  We pulled into the small underground parking lot below the condo where he lived and then took an elevator up to the second floor. The walls were off-white, the carpet tan. There was no art in the hallway, no architectural oddities. It had no personality at all, not even inside. The Mountie lived here most of the time, I just couldn’t understand how. Chuck had a lot of personality. He had adapted so well to the weirdness of the Gulch that I had started thinking of him as a resident.

  But Chuck had obviously made an effort to spruce things up for me. There were daisies in a jar and candles on the small dining table. I could smell what I guessed was lasagna in the oven.

  “This is great,” I said and meant it.

  Chuck poured me a little wine and then began to dress a salad. I don’t usually drink but he probably figured—rightly—that this might be one of those occasions when a little liquor was appropriate.