Читать книгу Mistaken for the Mob - Ginny Aiken - Страница 8

“You’re nuts,” Dan told J.Z.

“Why? Because I know she’s pulling a fast one?”

“No. Because, man, you’ve taken a long walk down the diving board and gone off the deep end this time. You’ve let something personal get in the way of your work. Will you just look at her? I doubt she’s ever even killed a fly.”

J.Z. looked at Maryanne Wellborn as she smiled at and hugged other worshippers on her way down the church steps.

“That,” he said to his partner, “is what she wants us to believe. I’ll admit she’s good—very good.”

When J.Z. had first seen the librarian, she’d worn a boring baggy tan skirt and brown-and-white checked shirt. The next time, she’d sported garments in a gloomy shade of gray. Today, for Sunday School and the worship service, she had on a dingy-taupe dress that hung to about an inch above her ankles. A narrow brown belt caught the shapeless thing at her waist.

“Even if you can’t,” he added, “I can see right through her.”

Dan tapped J.Z.’s shoulder with a fist. “Then you must have X-ray vision. I don’t think there’s anything here. I’ve a feeling she’s just what she looks like, a serious librarian with more on her mind than the latest fashions.”

After a pause, Dan went on. “Don’t take it wrong, okay? I’m worried about you. You’re not yourself. I mean, you almost blew it at the library, and then at the mall. All that after you promised you’d be careful.”

J.Z. went to argue, but Dan held up a hand.

“She’s not dumb, you know. You shouldn’t have talked Zelda into letting you take her place. You have to keep a professional distance.”

“You forget I’m the senior agent here.”

“But you’re acting like a rookie with a bone to pick. Unless you want to blow a case we’ve worked for months, you’d better get a hold of yourself.”

“So what do you have to say about the lab findings? Those were her fingerprints on Laundromat’s IV-fluids stand. They match the ones we lifted from her desk.”

Dan shrugged. “She’s in and out of that nursing home with her library cart and to visit her father all the time. Who knows when she might have touched the thing? For an innocent reason, I mean.”

J.Z. snorted. “They have sick people there, Dan. All that equipment is cleaned and disinfected and sanitized—all the time. It’d be pretty hard for fingerprints to survive that kind of scouring.”

“Hey, there’s always a first time for everything.”

So as not to continue the argument, J.Z. ground his teeth. He followed Maryanne’s progress toward her plain little Ford, and took note of how she patted the tight bun at the back of her neck.

He didn’t buy the story she was selling. No woman would choose to hide her hair like that without a reason.

Many years ago, his father had mastered the art of the innocuous appearance. The plain black suits, black ties, white shirts and black shoes he’d worn were the male equivalent of Maryanne’s dowdy wardrobe. Her bun was the perfect counterpart to Obadiah’s unremarkable barbershop cut.

He had to give the devil his, or in this case her, due—Maryanne Wellborn had her cover down pat, just like his father had. But J.Z. wasn’t about to let the illusion of respectability get in the way of his mission. He hadn’t gone over the edge; he just knew the difference between a trick and reality.

Everywhere the librarian went he’d be sure to follow. He would keep the pressure on her until she cracked. Sooner or later, she’d talk. And then he’d bust her, Olive Oyl disguise notwithstanding.

Maryanne ran into her father’s suite, out of breath. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The Sunday School Council meeting after the service dragged on forever.”

“Gimme a hug,” Stan said. “And in about an hour I’ll be the one griping about endless meetings. The Residents’ Senate has an agenda fatter than the Federal budget for today’s meeting.”

“Oh.” She plopped onto his bed. “Well, then, I guess I’d better be going. I’ll come back later…maybe after dinner.”

Stan caught her fingers. “Don’t you dare leave me to the mercy of that bunch of geezers.”

“Dad! How can you call them something so ugly? Besides, you’re one of them, aren’t you?”

“Yup. And that’s why I can call us anything I please. We’re geezers, all right. Just you come and listen to us. I know you’ll agree before the pecking party’s over.”

Since her father rarely asked of anything, Maryanne didn’t have the heart to turn him down. “Okay. I’ll stay. But only if you promise I won’t fall asleep during this senate thing.”

Stan winked and pushed the forward button on his wheelchair. “I can promise you fireworks, Cookie. Besides, I still have some of my birthday cake in the fridge. Come back here with me after the shoot-out’s over, and we can make a serious dent in it.”

Maryanne frowned. “How’s your blood sugar?”

“Bah!” Stan waved and rolled ahead. “I’m sick and tired of all that poking and bleeding. Can’t a man have himself a piece of cake without it turning into a big deal?”

“Oh, Daddy.” She hated the part of party pooper. “I wish I could tell you it’s no big deal, but you’re in that wheelchair because of the diabetes. The amputation was no joke, and we have to take care of your heart.”

Irritation flared in Stan Wellborn’s blue eyes, but he stifled it almost as soon as she saw it. “Don’t mind me, Cookie. I just get testy when I can’t have my way. I know the Lord’s blessed me with a bunch more days to hang around this side of life, and I can’t dishonor His gift by misbehaving. But I won’t deny I’d sure like to every once in a while.”

Before she could respond, he opened the apartment door, and waited for her to join him. He locked up, then propelled his wheelchair toward the elevator at the end of the long interior balcony that served as a hall.

They made their way down in silence, consumed by private thoughts. Once the elevator pinged at the mezzanine level, they waited for the doors to open. Maryanne followed her father to the activities hall. His friends greeted her with affection, a fondness she returned. Soon, however, petite Mitzi Steinbrom tottered on her stiletto heels to the podium.

“Yikes!” Maryanne leaned closer to Stan. “Has Mrs. Steinbrom ever fallen from those spikes?”

“Alls I know is that she says they give her a regal bearing. I guess if you translate from Mitzish to English, that means she feels a need to make up for her lack of height.”

Maryanne glanced forward again, but the plucky widow had disappeared. “Where—”

“Watch,” her father answered. “She had maintenance build her a set of steps. Otherwise, we’d never see her over that dumb stand she insists she needs to run these goofy gatherings. She likes to follow Roberts’ Rules, but no one else here’s willing to waste time on those kinds of things.”

Sure enough, the tangerine curls popped up over the lectern and Mrs. Steinbrom tapped the microphone. The woodpecker beat self-destructed into a wicked screech. From the control room at the back of the hall, a man hollered, “Sorry about that.”

Mrs. Steinbrom smiled magnanimously. “We’re used to it, Reggie. We’ll wait until you’ve fixed it.”

“Hey, Mitzi!” A bald gentleman waved a cane from the far right bank of chairs. “We heard Reggie, so it’s fixed. Get on with your dog-and-pony show. I want to catch my before-dinner nap.”

An eleven-type fold appeared between Mitzi’s penciled-in brown brows. She smiled, clearly comfortable with the noblesse oblige she felt the position of chairwoman required.

“Very well, Roger. We’ll bring this meeting to order.”

“Ah…give it a rest, will ya, Mitz?” another man called out, this one seated near the back door and garbed in a blue polo and pants. “Just get on with the stuff you wanna talk about and forget all this other junk. We’re all too old to sit around and wait.”

Mitzi pursed her orange-coated lips. “It’s best if we do things properly, Charlie. Have some patience.”

“It’s best,” Maryanne’s father offered, “if we’re efficient, Mitzi, so why don’t you start with number one?”

The chairwoman’s cheeks blazed red. “Fine,” she said in a curt voice. “What do we think about cats?”

“Litterbox stink!” a lady Maryanne didn’t know yelped.

That one’s neighbor to the left added, “They yowl.”

“Are you going to pick up my garbage when they go dig for stuff?” the impatient Charlie asked, his jaw in a pugnacious jut.

Someone up front offered, “I’m allergic….”

“Those claws…they scratch everything,” came from the right.

A frail wisp of a woman stood with difficulty, aided by her aluminum walker. “They’re a great comfort when one’s all alone.”

The room silenced at the dignified tone.

“Eloise has a point,” Maryanne’s dad said. “None of us has too much company at night. It’s worth giving that some thought.”

Eloise nodded, and abundant waves of white hair rippled at her temples. “I think we can tolerate some inconvenience if a pet helps another of us during a time of need. I vote for the cats.”

“But no dogs!” Charlie bellowed, arms crossed.

Mitzi smiled in what looked like relief. “Let’s discuss the canines, then.”

Roger stood. “See this cane?”

Everyone nodded.

“It means,” he went on, “that I can’t walk so good anymore. How’m I gonna stay on my feet when a mutt jumps all over me?”

“Obedience classes,” suggested a woman who didn’t look old enough to meet the community’s fifty-five-year minimum-age requirement. “Those are fun. My late husband and I had a wonderful time training our dogs.”

Charlie snorted. “More work. I retired for a reason—I’m tired and old.”

The young-looking senior arched a brow. “No one says you have to own or train a dog, Charlie.”

An uncomfortable silence descended. Then Mitzi gave a smart crack of the gavel against the lectern. “I think we’ve reached an agreement. Cats will be allowed, but dogs won’t. Sorry, Connie.”

The woman who’d suggested the obedience classes stood. “I don’t think anyone’s agreed to anything about the dogs—at least not yet. We need to discuss it some more.”

“Okay,” Charlie ventured. “Let’s talk. I don’t want to step on any when I go for my walks every morning.”

A portly blonde in the front row turned to glare at Charlie. “Everyone must clean up for him or herself,” she said. “It’s only reasonable that those who want dogs take care of it.”

“What’s your plan?” Charlie asked. “Have management hand out official pooper-scoopers with our lease agreements?”

Maryanne swallowed a laugh. She could just envision the scene…a battalion of geriatrics armed with long-handled double shovels and baggies, all leashed to members of a motley crew of canines.

“That would work,” the blonde said.

“Baloney,” Charlie countered.

Mitzi banged again. Her compatriots ignored her and clamored over each other’s comments.

“They shed all over, and then there’s the drool.”

“Petting one’s been proven to reduce blood pressure….”

“They can be rambunctious. That’s dangerous—”

“Seizure dogs are true lifesavers.”

“Leashes can cause accidents….”

“They’d have puppies—”

“They bite!”

“Fleas—”

“When are we going to get to the liver?” Charlie demanded.

Eloise smashed her walker against the metal chair in front of her. The residents turned toward the source of the din, and when they spotted her, fell into a stunned stupor.

“I didn’t think when I moved here my address would be the Tower of Babel,” the slight woman said, her voice distinct and determined. “But this bickering certainly sounds like it.”

Maryanne noticed more than one red face in the group.

“It also strikes me,” Eloise went on, “that a fair amount of selfishness has taken root among us. I want no part of that. The Lord created animals and left them in our trust. He also urged us to do unto others as we would others do unto us. So I’d like to see us show some forbearance in our small community.”

A chair squealed in the back of the room. Clothes rustled to Maryanne’s left. Someone cleared his throat to her far right.

No one ventured a remark.

Eloise stepped her walker forward. “We can determine a safe size for dogs—say about twenty pounds and under. Of course, we’ll enact leash laws. And Connie’s right. The owner must be responsible for the pet’s…ah…production.”

A nervous chuckle began near the side door and soon gathered strength. Before long, everyone was laughing, even Roger and Charlie. Everyone but Mitzi.

Her elevenses deepened and furrows lined her lily-white forehead. She pursed her bright lips and looked ready to stomp and cry at her loss of control—and her lost battle against dogs.

“Silence!” the diminutive chairwoman yelled.

No one listened.

She banged her gavel to no avail, so she banged some more, and banged yet again, this time, however, with a bit too much force. The gavel broke.

“Oooh!” she cried. “Just look what you made me do!”

Her wail penetrated the good-natured chatter. Everyone faced forward, and more than one chuckle had to be smothered.

“Come on, Mitzi,” Maryanne’s father called out. “We’re done. The place has gone to the dogs, and I want to go home.”

“But…but we haven’t discussed the liver,” she said with a shuffle of paper. “Or the steamed spinach. I can’t abide them.”

“Hear, hear,” Charlie cheered.

Roger stood. “Aw, give it up. It’s nap time.”

Mitzi ran her fingers through her bright hair, spiking it into a ridge of exclamation marks. “Oh, and we haven’t even touched on the fountain outside. It’s an absolute disgrace. Who ever’s heard of pink flamingos in Pennsylvania?”

“That’s it!” Stan Wellborn said as he spun his wheelchair toward the rear of the room. “I’m gone. Those flamingos are just about the funniest thing around here. Go rent a sense of humor, Mitzi.”

Maryanne hurried to open the door for him.

“They stay,” he said. “They stay, and they stay pink.”

As they waited for the elevator, Maryanne kept quiet. Behind them, other residents poured out of the common area. Each voiced an opinion. At her side, her dad tapped his fingers on the wheelchair’s control panel, a sure sign of annoyance.

The elevator doors opened. Father and daughter stepped inside. No one else joined them, and the conveyance soon glided upward. Just before they reached the sixth floor, Stan chuckled.

“What did I tell you, Cookie?” he said. “Fireworks, right?”

She gave him a wary look. “Were you just fanning the flames?”

“Nah. Mitzi’s gone too far with her chairwoman thing. Those who want cats should have their cats, and those who want dogs should have them, too. Just don’t mess with my liver and onions, and leave my pink flamingos alone.”

When the elevator stopped, he flashed her a grin and winked. “Welcome to the loony bin, Cookie. And thanks for listening to me. I’m right where I belong.”

Just like that, Maryanne’s last qualms about her father’s move to Peaceful Meadows vanished. Stan Wellborn had found a home.

Her guilt lifted, she relaxed and the afternoon went by fast, full of laughter, good conversation, a killer game of checkers and a serving of her dad’s birthday cake.

All in all, it was a perfect Sunday afternoon.

“Good night, Cookie.”

“Good night, Dad.”

She hadn’t meant to stay so late, but Maryanne hadn’t wanted to leave her father. She’d had a great time, even though liver and onions was not her favorite dish. Dad had wanted her company at dinner, and since all that awaited her back home was an uppity cat and the report she’d written yesterday afternoon, she’d stayed. She could proofread the whole thing in no time once she got home.

The rain started around sunset, typical for a late spring evening in South Central Pennsylvania. Now, on her way out, she lowered her head, covered it with her tote bag, and ran into the night. In her hurry to reach the car, she didn’t watch her step, and her shoe hit a puddle. She slipped, yelped and dropped.

Muscular arms broke her fall.

“Thanks,” she said and then looked up. “NO!”

She froze in the circle of J.Z. Prophet’s clasp, tight against his chest, close to his warmth and clean scent. Not the smartest thing to do, but until she could breathe again, she couldn’t move. To gather her wits, she tried to think of something—anything—other than those intense gray eyes.

“You should be more careful,” he said, his voice deep.

She fought for breath, and this time, gulped in a lungful of fresh-washed air. “What are you doing here?”

“Taking care of business.”

His tone spoke volumes, but she didn’t understand a thing. Still, she had no intention of carrying on a conversation with the miserable creature. Certainly not while she remained in such a vulnerable position—at his mercy.

She shoved against his chest, and to her surprise, he let her go. She almost fell again, but she summoned her strength and stood upright. She tugged down her belt from where it had slid way up on her ribs; she straightened her skirt; she ignored the rain.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” she said. For good measure, she tipped up her chin. “But I do want to know why you’ve been following me.”

Something sparked in his eyes, but he still didn’t speak.

“Fine.” She stepped toward her car. “You can play Mount Rushmore all you want, especially in the rain. Just remember, if I see you again where you don’t belong but I do, I’ll call the cops.”

“Go ahead.”

The rain sluiced over his dark hair, plastered it to his head like a robber’s skullcap. It did nothing to endear him to her.

“If you want to convince me the law doesn’t bother you, then try something new. Quit following me and really mind your business. No sane man would dog an ordinary woman. There’s nothing interesting about me. I’m a librarian with an elderly, disabled dad.”

He shrugged, that incomprehensible intensity as always in his eyes. “I am minding my business, and I’m good at it.”

A shiver racked Maryanne. It had nothing to do with the rain and everything with the man. “Stalking’s a crime, you know,” she said, steps from her Escort…and safety. “They can lock you up for a long time, so quit before they do.”

She fumbled with her keychain, but to her dismay, she dropped it. With the last of her courage, she said, “Go crawl back under the rock from whence you came.”

As she went for her keys, his hand shot out and grabbed them. Fear churned her gut, and she prayed he wasn’t like a dog, able to scent it on her.

With a click, he unlocked her car door then handed her the keys. In silence, he strode into the dark. Maryanne collapsed against the fender and just stood there, drenched in rain and sweat. For long moments she just breathed and shook, thankful she could still do both.

“Lord God, thank you for…for…whatever. Just help me.”

When she could move again, she opened the door and sat. Long minutes later, she turned on the ignition. The drive home was a numb haze—another mindless drive under her belt. If she kept this up, she’d soon qualify as a homing pigeon, functioning on some instinctual plane.

That, and she’d have a couple of centuries of thanks and praise to offer her Lord.

In the garage, Maryanne sat back and tried to relax her shoulder muscles. She failed. Miserably.

The memory of J.Z. Prophet returned with the vengeance of hurricane-spurred ocean waves. What did the man want with her?

Because, without a shadow of a doubt, Maryanne knew J.Z. had come to Peaceful Meadows to keep tabs on her. What she didn’t know was why?

And she’d better figure it out soon…before it was too late.

For her.

At ten the next morning, Maryanne called the cell phone rep Trudy had recommended. In a few minutes’ time, she’d agreed to stop by the kiosk at the mall and sign a contract for a year’s worth of service. Next time J.Z. Prophet showed his face, she’d be ready. Her new phone came with preprogrammable automatic dialing.

The first number she’d record would be 911.

The day went by in the same kind of blur as when she drove home last night. By five, she didn’t remember much of what she’d done. Well, she turned in the report, but other than that…mush.

Determined to regain some semblance of sanity if not control, she concentrated on the drive to the mall. She even sang along with Rebecca St. James’s latest on the radio. She parked, locked the car, ran through the ongoing rain to the food-court entrance and made a beeline for the cell phone and safety.

The young man had the papers ready for her. All Maryanne had to do was sign her name and give him a check. After a handful of directions, she felt confident enough to head home with the gadget and its instruction manual. On her way back to the car, she detoured by the frozen yogurt counter. She didn’t often indulge, but today she ordered a swirl cone. She didn’t want to choose between chocolate and vanilla.

Because of the rain, she opted to finish her treat at one of the food court’s small tables. Then, on her way to the great outdoors and the deluge, she tossed away her napkin and saw the man watching her from the sandwich shop line. She came to a halt.

J.Z. Prophet wasn’t besting her again.

Maryanne marched up to him. “I told you I’d call the cops the next time I saw you.” She pulled out her phone. “Watch me.”

He covered the gadget and her hand with his much larger one, his clasp gentler than she would have imagined. “It won’t do you any good. I know what you are—”

“What are you doing, J.Z.?” asked the other Uni-Comp clown, a bag redolent of corned beef in his hand. “You’re worse than a kid. You can’t leave well enough alone, can you? Do you want Eliza to charge out here and tear a strip off your hide—”

He stopped just when things were about to get interesting, when Maryanne might have learned something about the probably psychotic J.Z. But the two men glared at each other, and if it weren’t for the minor matter of her captured hand, she would have taken her leave. Instead, she looked from one to the other, only too aware of J.Z.’s warm clasp.

“Ahem,” she said.

The men turned.

“Would one of you please tell me which episode of the Twilight Zone you’re rerunning here?”

“Let her go,” J.Z.’s partner said.

J.Z. captured her gaze just as firmly as he held her hand.

“Who are you guys?” Maryanne’s fear fired up again. “What do you want with me? And don’t even mention computers. I know you’ve been following me.”

“Come on, J.Z. Let’s go.”

Maryanne smiled her gratitude at the blond man who didn’t work for Uni-Comp—she wasn’t dumb.

“Yes, J.Z. Let me go. I’ll go my way and you can go yours, and never the twain shall meet. Okay?”

“Let her go,” her pal—Don? Dan? Yeah, Dan Something—repeated.

J.Z. acceded, but a strange look she couldn’t read, not the anger she’d seen, maybe frustration, filled his eyes. “Watch yourself,” he said. “One mistake, and I’ll make my move.”

“Who are you?” she asked yet again.

“Tell her, J.Z. You’ve blown this out of the water, so you may as well tell her now.”

Maryanne’s eyes ping-ponged from one man to the other.

Dan muttered something else, this time nothing Maryanne could make out. He thrust his sandwich bag at J.Z. and rummaged in his back pocket. But instead of the wallet she’d expected, he extended a small leather card case toward her.

“What…?”

“Open it,” he said gently.

She did. Four words jumped out at her: Federal Bureau of Investigations.

Her head spun. Ice replaced her blood. The world tipped under her feet. “Why?”

“You’re under investigation,” J.Z. said in clipped tones. “You’re good, but I’m better. I’m going to get you and your mob pals, so say goodbye to freedom, your frozen yogurt and your little phone.”

Everything went black.