Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) (8 page)

Casually, Jewels glanced in the rearview mirror. Instantly the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck leaped to attention. Dread ascended the back of her throat. Was that green truck following her?

Without losing concentration on the road ahead, she strained for a better look at the pickup in the rearview mirror. Appeared to be a newer Dodge. Tandem wheels. Forest green. Tinted windows. Not the run of the mill pickup. Mega bucks had been invested for that Ram.

Her eyes cut to the dash clock: 3:05. At the next light she would cruise into Circle K. Grab a Diet Coke from the fountain. Browse the magazine rack. Waste five or ten minutes. At 3:15, leave. If the person behind the wheel of that Dodge wasn’t intentionally tailing her, the truck should be well on its way to wherever it was going. But if that green dually appeared in her rearview again, clearly, she would have to engage the mindset rules of combat, continuing with heightened awareness and escalating with plans to avoid possible confrontation.

3:15 P.M.
After paying for the handful of magazines and the Thirst Quencher, Jewels hustled to the H1. Not wanting to alert the would-be follower that she was suspicious, uncharacteristically she kept her head down, acting like she was absorbed in fumbling with a tangle of keys.

Once inside the safety of the Hummer, she pretended to touch-up her lipstick using the rearview mirror to visually scan behind her. So far, so good. No fancy green Dodge.

Jewels turned on the radio. It was tuned to The Oldies, Rock-n-Roll. Music would calm her. Help her think.

Again her eyes shifted to the rearview mirror. Still no sign of the green Dodge. “Okay,” she sighed with relief. The radio whispered in the background. A commercial ended. A song was ready to play, she cranked the volume. After hearing the first half dozen notes, she knew it was “Bad Moon Rising” by Creedence Clearwater Revival. Was that an omen? Laughing it off, Jewels chalked up the notion to extreme paranoia and quickly changed the subject. “Better check in,” she muttered, lowering the radio volume to command the voice-activated phone system to call the office.

“New Greensburgh Press, Belinda speaking. How may I direct your call?”

“Belinda—”

“Jewels! Things are crrrrazy around here. Are you okay? Reporters have been calling for you all afternoon. They want to interview you. Sorry to hear about your friend.”

“Thanks, Belinda. And yes, I’m fine. Any crises? Press still running?”

“No crises that I know of, and yes, the press is on schedule. Are you coming back to the office today? What do you want me to tell the reporters? Did you call your FBI guy? He called here for you,
again
.”

Jewels snickered. She’d never known anyone who could talk as fast as Belinda without taking a breath. “Belinda, you can always make me laugh,” she said, a slight, but genuine, grin sneaking over her lips.

She glimpsed up at the scene in her rearview mirror. A fancy green Dodge tandem wheeler had just pulled into traffic two or three cars behind her. Was it the same green pickup?

“Jewels? Jewels? Do we have a bad connect—”

“We’ll talk when I get to the office. See you in ten minutes.” Jewels tapped the END button, disconnecting the call. Her undivided attention had to be focused on that green pickup, whose driver was either the world’s worst shadow, or didn’t give a hoot if she knew she was being followed. Either way, not good.

Double-checking the truck in her rearview mirror, she concluded it
was
the same truck. Even had tinted windows.

“Shit!” Swearing was not part of her everyday vocabulary and when she used it, she was feeling pushed to the brink.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER. The green Dodge had blatantly followed her to the Press. Parking in her designated spot, she again pretended to primp in the mirror. The truck cruised into the Maverick convenience store across the street and parked with its hood facing the Press lot.

“I got you now,” Jewels whispered, squinting to see the license plate. But the front bumper was bare and the way the truck was parked, it was impossible to see the rear to nab the number. “Damn,” she blurted out, shaking her head in frustration. Maybe she should ask Belinda to get her another fountain Coke. While she was there she could jot down the creep’s license plate number. Almost instantly she shook her head. “Jeez, Jewels,” she said in reprimand to herself. “What are you thinking? That could be
Sharon
’s killer behind the wheel. Belinda’s life could be in danger if you sent her over there.”

Casually stepping out of the Hummer, the Gucci handbag slung over her shoulder, she reached across the seat to pick up the Thirst Quencher. After locking her vehicle with the remote key fob, she proceeded to confidently stroll toward the Press, the spiked heels of her shoes clacking against the cement sidewalk with each brisk step.

After only a few strides, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck jumped to attention again. A disturbing wave lapped her spine. The driver of that fancy green truck was watching her ... she
felt
it. Hurrying her pace, she couldn’t wait to reach the security of her office, located only about thirty feet from the main door of the Press.

“You made it,” Belinda cheerfully greeted as Jewels hustled inside.

Smiling, Jewels couldn’t help but think how Belinda’s personality was so much like that of a puppy dog: always happy to see you no matter what, and always having a way of making you feel just a little bit better by being around. But Belinda’s feel-good words were eclipsed by the unnerving feeling of being
watched
.

Unable to shake the urge to look one more time, she paused at the entry and leaned her entire body backward in an attempt at nonchalance to peek out the window at the Maverick. Sighing, somewhat relieved, her shoulders relaxed. At least the green Ram was still parked where she could see it.

With papers in her hand, Belinda popped out from behind her desk, dashing toward Jewels. Rifling through them, she spouted, “The
Tribune
called, as did Sarah Kimball—”

Thrusting her free hand forward like a stop sign, “Not now. I’m sorry, Belinda, I need some time alone, undisturbed. Hold all calls, cancel my engagements for tonight and please don’t interrupt me unless it’s a dire emergency.”

Stunned, Belinda stood there, mouth gaping. “Uh, okay,” she softly replied, all enthusiasm sufficiently squashed as Jewels hurried into her office.

With the office door locked, she marched straight for her plush office chair, setting down her Thirst Quencher close to her computer and dropping her purse in the bottom right drawer of her desk before taking a gander out the window toward the Maverick. “Still there,” she mumbled, remotely closing the blinds that covered both inside and outside windows in a self-imposed lockdown of sorts.

Stretching her arms above her head, she collapsed into her big executive chair, sighing. “This could be a long afternoon,” she conceded, slipping out of her heels while swallowing a sip of Diet Coke from the big Thirst Quencher.

Now in the total privacy, comfort and security of her office, she retrieved the folded placemat from her bra, ironing it on the desk with her hands. “Sharon Marie,” she whispered, studying the scribblings. “What is this, and why would someone want to kill you to keep it a secret? Or do they even know about this map or that you passed it to me?”

Leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes, slowly tilting her head from side to side and rubbing her stiff neck. “Exactly who are
they
and why did you give the map to
me
... and why
today
?”

Questions swirled in her mind like scraps of paper caught in a dust devil. Talking aloud sorted her thoughts, helped her think more clearly. And right now, she needed all the clear-thinking assistance she could muster for her boggled mind.

After rolling her shoulders in an exaggerated up-back-down motion a few times, she opened her eyes, exhaled deeply, continued her thinking process aloud. “Was the person behind the wheel of that green pickup following Sharon? Is that same person now following me? Could the pickup driver also be the hooded man from the cafe ... Sharon’s murderer?”

Only one point was painfully clear: Whoever killed

Sharon, presumably for the map, probably wouldn’t think twice about killing her, too. Some kind of action was required on her part, but what? Whatever she did, it would have to ensure that, heaven forbid should a terrible
accident
befall her this afternoon or later tonight, both her and Sharon’s deaths would not be in vain.

Of course the simplest solution—
Plan A
she called it—would be to surrender the map to the police and let them deal with it. Still, she wondered
why
Sharon made her promise not to hand it over to the authorities as well as
why
Sharon gave the map to her in the first place. The remaining classic reporters’ questions,
where, when, what
and
how
, could be answered later, after she figured out the
whys
.

Kneading the plush carpet with her toes like a content cat, she mulled over the possibilities. Could law enforcement be involved with Sharon’s murder? If so, were they locals or feds? Was it a rogue officer or two, or an entire department? And why? Why kill Sharon? For the map? Jewels turned her attention to the poorly sketched drawing.

Near the top, under SPOF HIDEOUT, the words UINTA MOUNTAINS were scrawled. In the middle of the paper, a rectangular box. SPOF was written on it with groups of lines, like a child would make to indicate roads, shooting out from and around the SPOF box, with one of them marked MAIN. Near the top left corner, a small square labeled CABIN traced over numerous times to make the letters thick then underlined multiple times for obvious emphasis. At the opposite side on the bottom, a squiggly oval with LAKE written across it. What was the point of this so-called map? Would it lead to a lost treasure? Reveal a dark secret? Jewels was clueless. “The only thing I know for sure, is the SPOF HIDEAWAY is somewhere in the Uinta Mountains,” she sighed.

It took only a moment of further contemplation for Jewels to conclude
Plan A
had too many drawbacks, not the least being the fact she had promised her dying friend she wouldn’t give the map to the cops. So no, the cops would not get the map from her. At least not yet.

On the other hand, if a psycho was following her and
something
did happen to her tonight, she would want to ensure
someone
in law enforcement knew why she was killed ... presumably for that darned map!

“Better come up with a Plan B,” she mumbled, gulping another swig of Diet Coke.

An idea popped into her head: make two photocopies of the map and create two detailed voice recordings of her encounter with Sharon and mail them to trusted contacts in law enforcement. One map and one tape would be Fed-Ex’d to the FBI, attention Special Agent In Charge Hines. Even though she didn’t want to date him, she figured she could trust him. After all, this matter with Sharon was business. Dating was personal. The other tape and map she’d Overnight Express to her friend, Jodie Clarkston, the Westmoreland County Sheriff, whom she
knew
she could trust.

The envelope addressed to Hines would be placed in Belinda’s
out
box. The other, addressed to Sheriff Clarkston, dropped in the
out
box in Production located in the wing opposite her office. That way if
someone
broke into
the Press and ransacked her office area, he would only find the envelope addressed to Hines. A thief probably wouldn’t think of searching the other end of the building for a second envelope, especially if one was found in her office.

If nothing
happened
throughout the night, she would arrive at work early in the morning and gather up the envelopes. It would be as simple as that! This envelope caper could continue endlessly, affording as many days as necessary to solve the mystery of the SPOF map’s importance.

Pleased with her scheme, Jewels immediately fashioned
Plan B.
Using the scanner connected to her computer, she duplicated two copies of the map. Next, retrieving the pocket-sized voice recorder she stored in her desk drawer—a reporter’s necessity, of course—she verbally documented her story. Once the original recording was finished, she copied the tape. Lastly, she addressed two special delivery envelopes each with a SPOF map and audio recording inside.

With
Plan B
ready to execute, Jewels leaned back in her chair, allowed her eyelids to slide shut and engaged in deep breathing exercises to unwind.

5:45 P.M. A gentle knocking on her office door snapped her out of relaxation mode.

“Jewels?” Belinda called through the closed door. “It’s almost six. I’ll be leaving in about five minutes.”

“Uh, okay. Will you wait for me?”

“Sure.”

Tapping the button on the remote to open the blinds covering the outside windows, the view surprised her.

Wind hissed through the thick branches of the great oak tree. The little wooden bird feeder spewed its contents as it twirled round and round, back and forth, up and down, as if manipulated by a spastic puppet master. Billowing hues of gray and charcoal painted the sky. A violent summer rainstorm was about to assault the valley. And the Maverick parking lot was empty. No green truck.