Bait & Switch (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 1) (8 page)

Sidonie laughed — a bright, pleasant trill. “We’ll manage. But I might need someone to watch CeCe.”

I grinned. “Definitely.” I’d pick up a few packets of Skittles on my next shopping excursion. I figured that would instantly make me a favorite with the little girl.

Sidonie was a great conversationalist. Between exfoliating, masking and moisturizing, she filled us in on all our neighbors (three), what she knew of Walt and the boys (next to nothing, ‘private’ she called them), what kind of shopping and services we could find in Woodland and how frequently it rained (all the time).

“Did you know this place was once the Mayfield Poor Farm?” Sidonie asked. “Named that since we’re in May County. Can you imagine living here in the old days? I heard it was dormitory style, and the residents were locked in at night to keep them from stealing stuff and running off with it.” She flushed. “Oh, I didn’t mean — I’m sure it’s nicer now.”

“Not really,” Clarice grunted. But she relented and allowed Sidonie to give her a hand massage with tantalizing apricot-scented lotion while a peel was working its magic on my pores.

And that’s how Matt found us. He didn’t even knock. Just walked in.

And got what he deserved for not observing social protocol — the astonishing scene of three women, two of them clearly not fit for public viewing, one of them slumped in her chair snoring softly while the spectacularly pregnant one held her hand, containers of potions strewn all over the table amid empty coffee cups, and me with seaweed green gunk on my entire face except for pale eye holes. I’d never seen a man look so uncomfortable.

His eyes darted from side to side as though he was considering a retreat. But then he jabbed a stern finger at me. “I need to talk to you.”

“I’m a little busy.”

“Now.” He glared and backed out of the door.

Apparently it had to be a private conversation. I sighed and shook my head at Sidonie’s wide-eyed glance. “Long story,” I whispered and followed Matt outside.

“You look like an alien.” Matt’s brow wrinkled in consternation — or suspicion, his eyes narrow.

I decided no retort would be the best course.

“I have news. It might be good.” Matt carefully studied the dirty passenger door of his government-issued muscle sedan. “Or not. We suspect your husband may still be alive.”

I gasped and clutched his arm. “Where? Are you sure? Is he safe?”

He glanced at me and away just as fast, wincing. “No. Not sure. All the accounts he’d been using for money laundering were dumped last night and this morning. Looks like he’s trying to cover his tracks.”

My breath froze in my throat. So the FBI was attributing my financial foray to Skip — they were on the wrong trail, for the moment, and I needed to keep them running. I swallowed and asked, trying to keep my tone hopeful, “But you’re sure it was Skip?”

“We don’t know of anyone else who has access to the accounts. He had plenty of minions doing the courier work, but he was a control freak, with good reason, about the accounts.” Matt squinted at me as though against a painful glare. “Unless something’s happened recently to change that.”

“Like a kidnapping?” I snorted. “I don’t think you’re as much inside Skip’s head as you think you are. How long have you been watching the accounts?”

“I’m not at liberty to disclose—”

“At least a year, right?”

He flinched, just a little tick, and I knew I was close.

“You threatened Robbie to get insider information. What are you doing to ensure your informant’s safety now, huh? Do you even know where he is?” I poked my finger into Matt’s chest. “Things have completely fallen apart, and you have no idea why.”

My voice pitched higher and I continued jabbing him with each point. “You
lost
my husband — your suspect. He was taken right out from under your noses
while
you were trailing him! You won’t offer me protection. The money’s disappeared. What’s next?”

The kitchen door was flung open, and the squat purple bundle that was Clarice crowded the doorway with Sidonie peeking over her shoulder. If my temper tantrum wasn’t enough to scare Matt off, then the fierce scowl on Clarice’s face was. 

He glanced between the three of us and backed around his car. “I’ll be back,” he gritted out.

“I want good news,” I shouted as he slammed his door.

We stood there, shivering in the mid-morning mist until his car was out of sight.

“Mahhhvelous, dahling,” Clarice said. “Bravo.”

“It’s not going to work for long.” I turned to Sidonie and took her hands, holding them tightly. “But you’re a godsend, giving me an excuse to not only look but also act crazy and maybe buy us a little more very precious time.”

She pulled a hand free and tapped my cheek. “Your peel’s dry. I’m thinking it’s my turn to listen to a little gossip.” She hugged my arm and led me inside, her eyes sparkling. “He’s some kind of law enforcement, yes? So handsome when he’s angry.”

My skin stretched in peaks as Sidonie picked an edge of the peel free and began yanking it off my face. I tried to talk around the pulling, giving Sidonie only the most basic facts and promising more information later if and when I learned anything. I didn’t want to put her or her family in jeopardy.

“You have such a lovely scar,” she murmured as she smeared moisturizer on my face, with special attention to my upper lip.

I snorted.

“No, really,” Sidonie continued. “It gives you character, makes you interesting and mysterious. I’d have known, just from looking at you, that you were up to something exciting. Your secret — what little you’ve divulged — is safe with me.” She giggled. “I’ve always wanted to say that. But what are you going to tell Mr. FBI when he comes back?”

“The truth. He’ll already know by then. I’m hoping for a few more hours, then he can yell all he wants.”

“I’m hoping handcuffs aren’t included with the yelling,” Clarice muttered.

CHAPTER 11

My theatrics bought us five hours. After we helped Sidonie pack her things and watched her jounce away in a battle-worn Volvo that seemed unfazed by our driveway, I sent Clarice back to bed and found some of my own clothes to wear.

Since I couldn’t count on Matt to knock, I volunteered as gatekeeper and took up position at the kitchen table. I’d have been shot for neglecting my duty, though, because I was asleep the instant I sat down.

I awoke to soft thuds and the scent of fresh coffee. Matt set a mug near my elbow as I scratched at dried drool on my cheek. Kind of like a seaweed peel and definitely organic, if you wanted to think about it that way.

“You wanna tell me why you were up all night?” Matt settled across the table from me and slumped forward with his chin on his hands so our eyes were on a level.

“Rats,” I muttered, my voice scratchy. I slurped coffee to clear the fuzz out of my head and give me a moment to formulate an explanation. Same equipment, same beans, but Matt’s coffee beat Clarice’s hands down. I drained the mug.

“I spent considerable time rummaging in cupboards and corners yesterday when I inspected the wiring. I didn’t see any sign of rats.” He wasn’t exactly amused, but there was a lightness to his eyes that hadn’t been there earlier.

Matt had actually been quite decent. I sighed and leaned back in the chair. “I didn’t mean live rodents. It’s an expression, because you’re calling my bluff.”

His brows arched, but he demonstrated mastery of the silent treatment.

“I have to be obstinate,” I bumbled on. “It’s my only hope. Did it work?” I crossed my fingers under the table.

“Hope?” Matt thunked his mug down, too hard, and coffee sloshed on the table. “I wouldn’t call your situation hopeful. But if you mean did tens of millions of dollars walk out the front doors of banks from Mumbai to Mombasa, then yes, you were successful.”

I couldn’t hide my grin. The bank in Mumbai was important — vital, in fact — to my plan. I squeezed my fingers harder, hoping he’d also mention a bank in Prince George, British Columbia.

“We got some back though. You didn’t get away with all of it.” My face must have fallen, because Matt added, “Europe’s big banks are generally more cooperative, and slower to process wire transfers. How’d you get in?”

I shrugged. “Lucky guess.” I wasn’t going to tell him Skip had used a password only I would know. I didn’t want to think about it myself — that maybe Skip had somehow planned for me to be the one hacking into his accounts. “We? I didn’t think the money was yours.” I scowled at Matt.

“Semantics.” He smiled as though he was enjoying our tiff. “The federal government has sticky fingers. You think it’s yours?”

“Skip and I didn’t have a prenup. So if it was Skip’s, then its mine too. If it wasn’t Skip’s, then—” I was getting really good at shrugging.

“On that note, the man we apprehended in Cozumel — the one who was sucker punched and left behind on the beach? He was killed last night.”

The news curled like a python around my ribcage. “While he was in jail?” I croaked.

“Organized crime basically runs the penal system in Mexico, so I guess it’s not a surprise. But it means we’re no closer to finding Skip.” Matt rose to refill our mugs. “It also means that whoever does own the money you were so generous with this morning is going to find out very, very soon, if not already. I told you they’re not people you want to mess with.”

“I know,” I whispered. “I’d still like to believe Skip’s innocent. Emptying the accounts was my way of finding out.”

“It could be a death sentence.”

“They have to find me first, on my territory. You want to reconsider offering me protection?”

“Can’t. Do you think you made the FBI’s Christmas list with your little stunt?”

I stared at a dusty cobweb waving in the corner of the ceiling and shivered. The draft was coming through the kitchen door which had swung open a few inches. I got up and pushed it closed, wiggling the knob to make sure it latched.

“I left enough money to keep Turbo-Tidy Clean running for now. The employees have to be paid.” I leaned on the table beside Matt. “Okay? They deserve at least a modest severance if Skip’s not found in the next two weeks. I also left an additional ten million which is reserved for paying his ransom. It needs to be protected in the case of a bankruptcy. I expect you to pull strings with the judge to make sure that happens. Those are my terms.”

“Terms for what?”

“Helping. I’ve done what I needed to do, now I’ll do what you tell me. I’ll be nice and cooperative.”

Matt laughed, a deep rumble that started in his stomach.

That’s when I noticed the dirty sneaker poking out from behind a teepee of mops and brooms in the corner. My heart sank. How much had he heard? I needed to get a padlock for the door.

“Eli? Come here.”

First one blue eye, then the other and a tangled mess of fawn-colored hair appeared from behind the cleaning supplies. He scrambled to his feet and walked slowly to me. He pressed against my side, peering at Matt from around my hip.

I rubbed his back. My silent boy with the big, big eyes. My boy who knew too much.

Matt’s lips pressed together in a tight line. He stared at me and shook his head, just a tiny side-to-side movement.

“Stay here,” I squeezed Eli’s shoulder and followed Matt outside for the second time that day.

“Any reason the news media would be interested in Skip’s disappearance?” Matt asked in a low voice once he’d closed the door behind us.

“We had a charity ball to attend in mid-December. The San Francisco society columnists are always in attendance. I’ll send my regrets. Other than that, no. Our private lives are hardly newsworthy.”

“It’s important to keep this as quiet as possible. It’s your best chance of prolonging Skip’s life if he’s — well, you know, of getting a legitimate ransom request.”

“You don’t have to tiptoe around the idea.” I bit my lip and glanced at the trees towering against the hills, teal and malachite greens and drifting pewter fog. “I know his odds are slim — or zero already.”

“That means locals, too. Drug cartels, organized gambling, prostitution rings — they have long reaches, people everywhere. You have kids here. Be careful.”

I closed my eyes against the beauty of what I was seeing in order to focus on the ugliness of what Matt was saying. “You’re always alone. Don’t you have a partner?”

Matt let out a surprised grunt. “She’s on vacation — in the Bahamas — which was deemed more important than my vacation and therefore not canceled. I was going to do a little fishing, a little reading, a little lazing around, hike some, actually cook breakfast. But, nope. I’m babysitting you.”

“Can you can make Hollandaise sauce? ‘Cause if you can I’d hire you as chef and open this place as a bed and breakfast.”

I got what I wanted — another deep belly laugh from Matt. I needed to make amends.

“In your dreams, Nora.” But he was grinning as he climbed into his car.

oOo

I lectured Eli about eavesdropping, but not too vigorously. I didn’t know what horrible things he’d already endured — what kind of neglect or trauma had resulted in his residence in a boys’ camp at such a tender age. Those eyes — they took everything in but revealed so little, like a bottomless soul. I hugged him and thanked him for the bird whistle. He flushed a little, embarrassed but pleased, and I sent him on his way.

Clarice and I made our afternoon productive by finding Woodland and checking a whole load of housekeeping tasks off our to-do lists. We drove separately, and I returned the Tahoe to the Hertz satellite office where Clarice picked me up. We both hit our ATM daily maximum withdrawal numbers and then we went shopping. I put everything possible on my credit card since cash was going to become a precious commodity.

I figured Skip’s money laundering clients would find me the same way the FBI did, so using my credit card was a moot point. I did, however, buy several prepaid cell phones and two new mobile hotspot devices with cash. I had to keep my cell phone on and with me, hoping for a ransom call, but I wasn’t going to conduct business with it.

In spite of my newfound spirit of cooperation, I needed a safety net and the FBI wasn’t it. My first call on a prepaid phone was to a friend in San Francisco who also happened to be a realtor. I told her where the spare key to my townhouse was hidden and asked her to remove all my personal items which were already boxed up and then put it on the market. I lied through my teeth about the sudden urgency of the decision and made up an obsessive wanderlust Skip and I had acquired. We were thinking about a far-ranging tour through South America before returning home. For all I knew, Skip really was in South America — it could be true.

At the library, Clarice photocopied every page of Skip’s little journal. I’d have to turn the original over to Matt, but I wanted to attempt deciphering it myself. Then we drove around in Clarice’s station wagon for a while, familiarizing ourselves with the area.

Mayfield — I liked that the property had a name — was starting to look like home when Clarice backed up near the kitchen door and swung the car’s liftgate open. “We need to replace that bulb.” She pointed to a lantern fixture mounted on the brick wall above the patio.

A grimy blue plastic shopping bag hung from the doorknob. Thinking it was another gift from Eli, I untied the handles and peered inside.

I dropped the bag and emitted a gurgling, strangled sound. A glimpse in what remained of the dim afternoon light had been enough to recognize a finger — a human finger — a man’s finger.

Clarice was beside me in an instant, bending over the bag.

“Don’t look,” I rasped.

But it was too late. She snapped upright and stared at me, her face slack and gray underneath the slathered makeup.

“Oh, Nora.” Her voice wobbled, and she swayed.

I flung my arms around her and held her tight as she trembled. I walked her into the gloomy kitchen and eased her into a chair. Then I knelt beside her with my hands on her shoulders.

“I’m alright,” she snapped. “Don’t baby me.”

I gave her an I-know-better look.

“Give me a minute.” She removed her glasses and pressed her hands over her eyes. “Is it Skip’s?”

I patted her knee and returned to the bag. With just my fingertips, I widened the bag’s opening and forced myself to inspect the finger as much as I could without touching it.

It was not Skip’s — skin too tan, nail cut straight instead of tapered with what appeared to be machine grease caked underneath. The clincher was the hair between the knuckles — black and wiry and plentiful. I guessed the owner of the finger was of Middle Eastern or Latin descent, definitely not Skip’s mélange of northern European heritage. The finger had been separated from the hand, torn more than cut, because the bone wasn’t shattered. The joint reminded me of a chicken drumstick. The blood had clotted, and it wasn’t really that gross, although the Tillamook cheeseburger I’d eaten at the Woodland Burgerville was threatening to make a reappearance.

I walked to the edge of the patio and slumped against the brick wall, keeping a forearm pressed across my middle. I found Matt’s number which I’d programmed into my phone and hit the connect button.

“I have a finger,” I said when he answered.

“You’re giving me the finger?” He didn’t sound amused.

“No — well, yes. I have one, an extra. It doesn’t belong to anyone I know. I’d like you to come and get it.”

“Nora?” His tone carried warning, as though the joke was wearing thin.

“Please?” I whispered.

I waited a heartbeat — two heartbeats.

“Twenty minutes.” Matt clicked off.

I slid to sitting, my back against the wall, and watched the blue plastic bag as dusk descended fast, helped along by heavy, thick clouds. It was going to rain again. Maybe the bag was a figment of my imagination. Maybe it would just up and disappear. Maybe if I closed my eyes it would go away.

The bag crinkled in the rustling breeze, held in place by the weight within it. I supposed the FBI would be able to tell whether the finger had been removed pre- or post-death. What man had sacrificed, I presumed not willingly, his finger as a message for me?