Grab & Go (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 2) (4 page)

CHAPTER 5

Des’s directions turned out to be perfectly accurate, and they got me to Hank’s door without having to pass a receptionist or a nurses’ station. Des had helped me evade the hospital’s gatekeepers. I wondered about that man. Maybe I should let him buy me food. However, if he thought my company was charming, then I questioned his judgment.

I softly tapped my fingernails on the partially open door and peeked through the crack. There was some shuffling, and Sidonie’s huge dark eyes appeared.

“Oh, it’s you.” She grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the room. “Thought that sheriff had come back. He wore Hank out with all his questions.”

Hank did not look good. Better than dead, but still not good. His skin was pale and waxy and deeply shadowed, almost as though he’d been beaten to a bruised pulp underneath the surface. A gown much too large for him sagged against the lumpy bandages on his chest. He was attached to several machines and tubes, his arms limp at his sides as he lay in a slightly inclined position, eyes closed. But his chest was rising and falling in a regular, if slow, cadence.

The room was crowded with Sidonie’s makeshift bed on a wheeled cot, a crib which held the sleeping twins, a rolling bedside table, and two plastic chairs.

“How’s CeCe?” Sidonie whispered.

I smiled and showed her the card.

Sidonie sniffed and brushed away a tear. “He wants to talk to you,” She squeezed my arm. “I’m going to take a walk, get something from the cafeteria. You want anything?”

I shook my head, not trusting my own voice.

She gave me another squeeze and slipped from the room.

Of course, she would need a break. I couldn’t imagine my world being ripped apart the way hers had been.

I bit my lip. Maybe I could. For the first time, I considered and was grateful for the fact that Skip and I hadn’t been married long enough to have children. At least my husband’s disappearance hadn’t affected any precious little people.

I pulled a chair up to the edge of the bed and laid a hand on Hank’s. His eyes fluttered open. I propped CeCe’s card where he could see it, and his face broke into a pain-controlled grin.

“Thanks, Nora,” he rasped.

I nodded. “You feel up to talking some more?”

“Got to.” He struggled to sit up straighter.

I pushed the pillows tighter around him to provide support. “Who else knows about Skip’s involvement?” I asked.

“No one.” Hank cleared his throat and swallowed, every movement seeming to make his eyes glass over.

“You didn’t tell the sheriff?”

Hank shook his head. “He’s certain it was a revenge shooting because I fired those boys.”

I slid the bedside table closer so Hank could reach the glass of water with the bendy straw in it.

He took a sip, licked his dry lips and concentrated on returning the glass to the table, but even so his hand shook. “I don’t think they’re that bright,” he finally said. “They were set up to do it, probably for money.”

I cast a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure Sidonie was still absent. “You sure?” I whispered.

“No.” Hank managed a weak smile. “Hunch.”

“You said Skip owns the property and the building. But who owns the business?” I asked.

“I report to a fellow named Neil Byrnes. Never met him. A phone call every few months.” Hank pointed toward the built-in closet unit. “His number’s on my phone.”

I felt through his stained clothing until I found the phone. I held it up, and Hank nodded. I keyed through the menu until I found a listing for Byrnes and copied down the number.

I returned to the bedside. “The guy who hired you quit shortly after you started?”

Hank snorted softly. “Seems he had the sense to get out before things blew up. He was nervous, jumpy. I assumed he wasn’t cut out for the stress of the job. Now, I think he maybe knew too much and realized it.”

“What was his name?”

“Roger Harrod, but it won’t help you. I’ve tried contacting him, and his number’s no longer valid. He moved away, and I don’t have his address.”

“The property tax records you found — where are they?”

“In my office. I locked them in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet on the left. The key’s in the drip tray for the dead plant on top. But Nora—”

“Don’t worry,” I cut in. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Watch out for Lee. He’s the only one who doesn’t report to me, and he’s worked there the longest — six years.”

“And while you’re gone, he’s in charge of the whole place?” I asked.

Hank gave me a brief nod, and his eyes shifted past my shoulder.

I turned. Sidonie was quietly latching the door behind her, a Styrofoam carton in her other hand. When I glanced at Hank again, his face had changed as though he was trying to ease the worry lines from it although the intensity still haunted his eyes.

“Baby,” he murmured. He stretched out a hand, and Sidonie laced her fingers between his. “I want to write a note to CeCe.”

Sidonie flashed the most beautiful smile — perfect white teeth and rosy lips — and found a pen and paper. She cozied up next to him while he printed in big block capitals. CeCe was working on her letters, and he was making sure she’d be able to read his handwriting.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. This sweet family. The daddy in a condition that should not be seared into a four-year-old’s memory, so they had to pass notes to each other. I sat there pretending I was invisible until I heard paper being folded.

Sidonie rose and brought the note to me. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Hank was resting, head tipped back, eyes closed. I walked out of the room with her.

At the end of the hall, I asked, “Are you going to continue staying here with Hank?”

Sidonie nodded, tears in her eyes. “The staff has been wonderfully accommodating. You saw the extra beds.” She leaned in and whispered. “Besides, he doesn’t want me to be home alone with the kids. Nora, what’s going on?”

I pulled her in for a quick hug. “I don’t know. But he’s right. CeCe will be fine with us. Clarice has her doing ‘school’ which consists of counting pennies into piles of ten and Roy G. Biv rainbow drawings and making her own alphabet flashcards. I don’t know which one of them is enjoying it more.” I gave Sidonie what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“Be careful.” Sidonie squeezed my arm and returned to her husband’s room.

oOo

I didn’t want anyone talking me out of what I was about to do, and I also didn’t think I could handle yet another person telling me to be careful, so I mashed the accelerator down hard and sped on the county road, letting the station wagon’s back end bounce around as I rumbled over potholes.

I flew past the entrance to Mayfield. The county road looped southwest after fifteen miles and crossed the freeway. The freight terminal sat in the northwest quadrant of that junction, perfectly poised for easy semi-truck access from the I-5 commerce thoroughfare.

It was a big, boxy, concrete building with raised docks for semis to back up to and giant, roll-up garage doors on two sides. The terminal sat isolated in the middle of a large paved area with lots of room for the trucks to maneuver.

Several semis, privately owned — no large trucking company logos in sight — were backed into stalls, and forklifts buzzed in and out of the trailers with pallets impaled on their prongs.

The office entrance was on the corner of the building diagonally opposite the loading bays. I parked and pushed past the reflective glass door into a dreary and neglected lobby. Clearly, the business was not about aesthetics, nor did they receive many customers here.

The industrial-strength glue-down carpet was unraveling in rows where the strings had been sucked up into a vacuum cleaner’s bristles. Dings and smudges decorated the beige walls more prominently than the one large poster of a map of the United States with the interstate freeways weaving a tangled web like red veins across the surface. There were no chairs, no signs of a secretarial presence, and no bells to ring for service.

A single male voice  sounded muffled in the distance. I couldn’t make out the words, but I’d recognize the cheesy, schmoozy, falsely enthusiastic tones of a salesman anywhere.

I had two options. I could yoohoo loudly or I could start wandering. I chose the latter, stepping lightly.

Anyone can get property tax records from the county. They’re certainly not worth shooting someone over. Hank must have found more — possibly more than he realized — or at least someone thought he had. I needed to see what he’d seen.

A dingy hallway held a series of doors — all open, except one. Directly ahead, a fireproof door was propped open with a sandbag, access to the warehouse area. Sporadic beeping of machinery in reverse and men’s shouts punctuated the salesman’s phony eagerness.

The first doorway led to an equipment junkyard — copy machines, fax machines, shredders, several old behemoth computer monitors and orphan keyboards made of mottled, yellowed plastic. The warped venetian blinds on the window hung at a sloppy angle, letting in stripes of gray light.

The second room contained a wheezing refrigerator, microwave with the door hanging open to reveal crusty food splatters, a sink and overflowing trash can. From the state of the break room, I was pretty sure no women were employed here. Clarice would have a hypertension incident if she saw the unsanitary conditions in which the workers ate their lunches.

The man’s voice rose. “No problem, Bruce. We’ll get right on it. You know we’ll match the dim weighted prices anyone else charges.” He banged the phone down and swore under his breath.

I waited until he started clicketing computer keys before risking a peek around the doorjamb. He was facing away from me, toward the spreadsheet glaring on the monitor. Coffee rings dotted the small part of his desk that was bare. The rest held messes of paper — stacks of invoices, bills of lading, pink and yellow and white triplicate forms with curled edges and more coffee stains. The office smelled of male perspiration, those cheap pine tree cutout air fresheners, and overheated printer ink. I ducked and soft-shoed across the opening.

The last door was closed. I tried the knob and eased it around until the latch released. A gentle push and a faint hinge squeak and a quick glance revealed another office. The dead plant on top of a file cabinet let me know it was Hank’s.

His office was tidy — dusty, but tidy, as though he rarely spent time behind the desk or at the computer. As the operations manager, that made sense. Hank probably managed his crew in person, out on the docks.

I shuffled sideways and reached back to nudge the door closed. Instead, my hand bumped fabric and a rounded, squashy paunch. I jumped.

“Can I help you?” His voice was cold with none of the veneer of friendliness he’d used on the phone.

For a big man, he sure had moved quietly. He towered over me, his head lowered as he glared at me from under bushy brows. From my vantage point, I had an excellent view of his comb over extraordinaire — slick strands of pewter hair plastered over a shiny scalp.

My mouth fell open, and my only thought was that the one thing you’re trying to hide is the one thing that is most obvious — for me perhaps as well as for Lee Gomes.

“Mr. Gomes?” I smiled wide, forcing my voice low so he’d have to stoop even farther to hear me. “I was worried about Hank, you know, after—”

His eyes narrowed. Right. Wasn’t going to work.

“I’m a neighbor of the family, and I just wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help — I expect Hank will be off work for a while. I’m good at typing.” I batted my eyelashes at him. “And balancing accounts. Would you like to see my résumé?”

His hand clamped hard around my elbow.

I winced and pulled my face into a pout. “Ow.”

“Get out,” he snarled. “We’re just fine here. We certainly don’t need the likes of you.” He shoved me ahead of him down the hall.

I tried dragging my feet, but it didn’t have any influence on my speed or direction. Lee Gomes was a bull of a man — both in spirit and in form. He pushed the glass door open with his free hand, forcing me to duck under his arm as he propelled me outside.

“Don’t come back,” he growled, “or I’ll call the police.”

I cocked my head and subjected him to the full force of my most penetrating glare, but he didn’t stick around to enjoy it. He pulled the door shut behind him, and the lock clicked into place.

Huh. Well, no point in continuing to make a spectacle of myself. The reflective glass acted like a one-way mirror. For all I knew, he was still leering at me from the other side. I didn’t want my image burned in his memory.

I hopped into the Subaru and gunned it out of the lot. I hadn’t given him my name, although I had to assume he might already know it.