Sharpe Mind, Hanging by a Thread Page 2

  Deena laughed as she opened her purse. “Luckily, I’m not as superstitious as you. What do you say?”

  Sandra stared intently at the counter.

  Deena knew Sandra’s superstitious nature ran deep, but she’d never seen it trouble her like this. “What if I promise to leave the haunted umbrella at home?”

  Shaking her head, Sandra declined. “I know you think I’m just being silly, but I can’t help it. I’ve just always believed in signs and spirits and such. I think I’ll stay home tonight and wait on Ian for dinner.”

  “Suit yourself. And I don’t think you’re silly. We all have our quirks.”

  “Like how you can’t get through a meal without spilling something on yourself?”

  Deena clucked as she reached for her wallet. “I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

  “Hey, I’m not taking money for that awful thing. I’m glad to see it leave the shop.” She pushed a large jar to the front of the counter. “You are welcome to make a donation to the animal shelter, though.”

  Deena stuffed a ten-dollar bill inside. “By the way, my visit isn’t just personal. Since you know everybody in town, I was wondering what you could tell me about Marty Fisk.”

  “Marty? He’s on the City Council.” Sandra walked back toward the storeroom and motioned for Deena to follow.

  “I know. I just left today’s meeting. He’s all fired up about re-zoning the south side of town. Any idea why?”

  Sandra handed Deena a cup of hot coffee, blowing steam off the top of her own. “Besides owning the pawn shop, he has a bunch of rental properties. Rumor has it he wants to build a big commercial office complex.”

  “What’s stopping him?”

  “There’s a few hold-outs in that area of town who won’t sell their property.”

  “I see.” Deena felt the warm brew travel down her insides. “So if the city re-zones, would they have to move?”

  “I guess. I haven’t paid much attention to what they’ve been doing since Brad Thornhill got elected mayor. He knows as much about running a municipality as I do about building a rocket ship.” She headed back to the store’s front counter.

  Deena drummed her un-manicured nails against the side of the cup. “It was obvious at the meeting that he and Fisk don’t see eye-to-eye on the re-zoning issue. I think I’m going to talk to some of the residents. Looks like there may be a story here.”

  A loud thump came from the storeroom.

  Deena flinched, almost spilling her coffee. “What was that?”

  Sandra glanced back over her shoulder and let out a sigh. “I think my storage closet is haunted.”

  Deena laughed as she pulled the price tag off her new umbrella. “Yeah. I’m sure that’s it.”

  “No, I’m serious. I’ve heard noises like that a couple of times this week. Couldn’t figure out where they were coming from. Then I realized it was coming from the storage closet where I keep clothes of the newly deceased.” She wiped her hand slowly across the counter. “Then it made sense.”

  “What? The newly deceased?” Deena glanced at her watch. “I’m sure it’s just a mouse or a squirrel. Have you called an exterminator?”

  “No. I’m getting used to it. Besides, Sister Natasha said I have spirits all around me.”

  “Sister who? Is she a nun?”

  “She’s that new psychic reader on Fourth Street.”

  Deena squinted her eyes, trying to make sense of what Sandra was saying. “Look, sorry to run out like this, but I’ve got a meeting with Lloyd back at the office.” She buttoned the front of her red raincoat. “This conversation isn’t over, though. Call Bugs-Be-Gone. I’m sure it’s just a rat. I’ll see you later.”

  The jingling of the bells behind her on the front door made Deena uneasy. She recalled a story she used to tell her students about the expression, “saved by the bell.” Legend had it that some people used to be buried with a string tied from their finger to a bell positioned above the grave, just in case it turned out they had been buried alive. Was Sandra’s superstitious nature rubbing off on her?

  She ducked under her new umbrella just as the door slammed behind her. That was loud. Loud enough to wake the dead.

  Chapter 2

  An aluminum saucepan sat in the middle of the kitchen floor catching a constant drip of rain from the ceiling. A trashcan served the same purpose in the hallway where several chunks of ceiling plaster had given way to the constant stream of water.

  Roscoe Trainor paced the floor of the kitchen like a caged animal, his cell phone at his ear.

  Tonya stepped around the pan to get to the refrigerator. “He still hasn’t answered?” She stared inside at the pathetic offerings. A box of American cheese, a half-empty quart of milk, a couple of cans of beer, and some old lunch meat that may or may not have gone bad stared back at her. “We need more paper towels.” She reached for a beer and popped the top.

  “Keeps going to voicemail. Don’t worry. I’ll call Fisk at the pawn shop when it opens at ten. If he doesn’t get someone out to fix these leaks today, I’ll personally drag him back here myself.”

  Tonya flinched. She had, on occasion, seen Roscoe’s dark side. Besides being one of the most devious, talented con artists this side of the Mason-Dixon, he had a temper. Luckily, it had never reared its ugly head toward her.

  “Why aren’t you dressed yet?” He checked the time on his watch.

  She picked up the least-bruised piece of fruit from the bowl. Beer and bananas. Breakfast of champions. “Do you really think anyone is going to drag through the mud and the rain to see a psychic on a day like this?”

  “Maybe not, but you never know.” He adjusted the knot on his necktie and tucked in his white dress shirt.

  Even dressed like a butler, Roscoe was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Still, she wished she didn’t have to rely on him for everything these days.

  The one time she ventured into town in her psychic get-up, the stares and whispers were too much for her to take. It seemed unfair that even though he was the one on the lam, she felt like the one hiding out. “When are you going to the market? I’m starving.” She took a bite of banana.

  “After dark, as always.” He walked through the makeshift curtained divider they had constructed between the front room and the rest of the house. He hung his suit jacket on the coat rack next to the front door.

  “It’s dark already because of this stupid rain. It never rained in Vegas.” Tonya slumped down in the kitchen chair and propped her feet up on the crosspiece of the wooden table.

  Roscoe rubbed her shoulders. “I’m sorry, babe. I know you’ve been stuck in the house for weeks. You just have to be patient.” He pulled off the towel she had wrapped around her head and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Just a few more months and we should have enough money for our new IDs and passports. Then it’s goodbye rainy Texas. Hello sunny Mexico.”

  She sat for a moment pouting. “How much money do we have?”

  He stopped the shoulder massage. “I haven’t counted lately.”

  He was avoiding her question, as usual. “After you paid the mechanic, how much money did we have left?” She took his hand and pulled him around to sit in the chair across from her.

  “Don’t worry yourself with the details. I’ve got it all worked out.” He pulled out his cell phone and opened a YouTube video. “You just need to keep working on that accent. Yesterday, it sounded more like East Texas than Eastern Europe.

  She dropped her head. “Not Rocky and Bullwinkle again! At least find a different episode of that stupid cartoon.”

  “Okay, but those customers out there have to think Sister Natasha sounds like Natasha Fatale if they are going to keep handing over their cash.” He gave her the phone and smiled.

  Although she was pretending to be a fortune teller, she might as well be a mind reader. He never gave her a straight answer when it came to money. Too bad she was such a sucker for his charm. More than that, though, he was her best chance of getting
to Mexico with enough money to locate Michael.

  Chapter 3

  The Northeast Texas Tribune newspaper came out three days a week and covered news across several counties. Local advertising supported the cost of publication. However, with more and more people accessing their news online and through social media, Managing Editor Lloyd Pryor was looking for ways to cut costs.

  Walking through the doors of the old brick warehouse that housed the newspaper offices, Deena thought about whether her job could be on the line. Last hired; first fired. She had gone to work the previous fall as a part-time reporter covering local politics. Only a few of her stories had garnered any real attention.

  But she knew Lloyd appreciated her maturity, and her meager salary surely wouldn’t make a dent in the budget. Even though being a “real reporter” hadn’t been as fulfilling as she had hoped, she liked the idea of being on staff.

  Luckily, she still had her antique booth to keep her busy. Financially, she and Gary would be fine. They had no children and could manage without her piddlin’ paycheck, if necessary.

  Bert, the newspaper’s copy editor, stood next to Lloyd’s desk as she waited outside the office. From the sound of it, Lloyd was giving him a good chewing out over a typo that appeared in that day’s issue.

  She had snickered and shown it to Gary over morning coffee. The lead story on the sports page read: “Maycroft HS Soccer Team Scores Two Girls to Take Title.”

  Gary had read it and said, “Things sure have changed since we were in school.”

  Spotting Deena in the doorway, Lloyd dismissed Bert who rushed past, looking anxious to get out of the line of fire.

  Deena walked in and sat in a cushy chair in the corner. She dropped her tote bag on the floor and asked, “What’s news, boss?”

  “Not today. I’m not in the mood.” He moved folders across his desk and threw a wad of paper toward the trashcan. He missed.

  By now, Deena had become used to her boss’s mood swings. He lived and died by typos. She waved her hand. “Don’t worry. I’m sure no one even noticed.”

  The phone on his desk rang, and he snatched up the receiver. “Uh-huh. Yes. Thanks.” He smashed it back on the cradle. “Right. That’s at least the hundredth call I’ve gotten today.” He punched some buttons on the console, attempting to put the phone on hold.

  “Aww, c’mon. Journalists aren’t supposed to use hyperbole.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “What do you want?”

  “You scheduled a meeting with me, remember?” She tapped her foot nervously as she waited for him to answer the phone again. His coffee-stained tie showed at least three spills, and it was barely eleven o’clock.

  This time he unplugged the cord in the back. “Sorry. Bad morning.”

  He pulled his glasses from the top of his head and fumbled for the right notepad on his desk. “I know you are aware of the paper’s financial difficulties. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to make some changes.”

  Deena leaned down to pick up her handbag for security. Even though she knew it was a possibility, the reality of getting laid off made her swallow hard. She braced herself.

  “I need you to start writing features. I’m re-assigning your political beat.” He looked over the top of his glasses.

  Her jaw dropped as her bag slipped to the ground.

  “I know it’s not what you want, but Laurie’s about to go on maternity leave. I need someone to replace her. Dan can handle your beat along with police news.”

  “Dan Carson?” Deena found her voice. “As long as he can cover it from a stool at Grady’s Sports Bar.”

  “Now, now. He’s a good reporter.” Pryor looked at his notes. “It’s not permanent. Just until things pick up in the fall. I’m trying to find a new marketing manager who can help us with our online presence.”

  Deena let out a sigh, not sure if she should be relieved or not. “What online presence?”

  “Exactly.” Lloyd stood up and picked up several balls of paper around the trashcan. “Go talk to Laurie and see what she’s working on. Maybe you’ll be interested.” He offered up a half-hearted smile.

  Features. Garden parties and church socials. Sure, she was bored with her beat, but at least it was real news. It seemed like she was taking a step backward rather than forward.

  “Alright. As long as it’s temporary.” She headed for the door. “By the way, I have a lead that might turn out to be something.”

  “Can you write a feature on it?”

  “Sure. Maybe.” Not really. She left the office dragging her feet. So much for being an investigative reporter.

  Chapter 4

  The small bathroom in the rental house had one thing going for it. There was enough counter space for Tonya to lay out all the make-up she used to transform from Tonya Webber, Arkansas native turned Las Vegas showgirl, to Sister Natasha, Eastern European gypsy fortune teller. That was as deep as her new backstory went. Thus far, she hadn’t needed to explain why she and her “brother” had decided to take up residence in Maycroft. Roscoe had told Marty Fisk she was his sister, not knowing if he’d rent to an unmarried couple.

  Roscoe stepped into the doorway. “Are you ready?”

  “Almost. How’s my make-up?” She gave a sultry look to the mirror, batting her dark eyes with their thick, fake lashes and heavy eyeliner. Her look was mysterious and exotic, a talent she had learned from her time on the stages of Las Vegas. She accented her face in such a way that her cheeks appeared sunken. She puckered her crimson lips.

  “Perfect.” He handed her the long scarf she wore draped around her head turban-style, letting her long, wavy locks fall past her shoulders. He straightened her fringed shawl.

  She pulled on the last of her cheap silver bangles and chunky rings. Over-sized hoop earrings provided the finishing touch. “I’m ready.”

  She picked up Roscoe’s cell phone and headed to the bedroom to sit in the house’s only comfortable chair. She touched the button to play and once again found herself immersed in “The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show.”

  But instead of practicing her Natasha accent, Tonya closed her eyes and thought about the day at the diner when she and Roscoe first concocted their scheme. They had needed money. Badly. When they left Las Vegas, all they had was fifteen-hundred dollars in cash. They had spent the rest of their combined savings to pay Roscoe’s bail. It was his third arrest for pick pocketing, and they knew this latest charge would lead to jail time. Tonya couldn’t let that happen. She gave her life’s savings to Atlas Bail Bonds, and they took off the next day.

  When she had relayed to him the incident at the café with the unsuspecting waitress, a light bulb had gone off in his head. They would bilk the quaint town of Maycroft to get the money they needed to hide out in Mexico. By the end of that day, they had secured the sparsely furnished rental house from Marty Fisk. By the end of that week, they had bought costumes from a thrift store and were ready to hang their shingle. As always, Roscoe had performed his magic.

  As long as they could keep their true identities secret and the cash flowing, they would be able to steal away to Mexico and say “adios” to all their troubles.

  Tonya pictured herself with long, tanned legs stretched out on a beach chair, sipping a cocktail with one of those paper umbrellas in it. Roscoe would only have eyes for her. She, on the other hand, would be searching for someone else. Someone who had slipped away from her years earlier.

  The buzzer sounded on the front door, making her jump.

  Roscoe stuck his head in the bedroom. “Someone’s here.” He reached for his upper lip and mashed down the fake mustache.

  Tonya took one last look in the mirror and waited in the kitchen with the lights out. Showtime.

  She peeked through a hole they had made in the curtain as Roscoe sprang into action. He lit the candles on the small square table in the front parlor and turned off the lamp.

  The buzzer rang again. He opened the front door.

  It was Betty Donaldson, t
he librarian. This was her third visit.

  “Come in, please.” Roscoe spoke with a baritone voice.

  Betty shook the water off her umbrella before stepping inside. Roscoe took her coat and hung it up, placing the umbrella on the floor. He moved slowly and methodically, further adding to the creepy ambience. Closing the front door, he held out his hand and then stashed the bills she gave him in his pocket. “Follow me.” He walked toward the table and pulled out a chair. “Wait.”

  They had arranged the front room in such a way that the customer would sit in the corner with her back to the curtain, facing toward the front door. Tonya, dressed as Natasha, would sit across the table. More often than not, the customer—always a woman—would set her handbag down on the shabby, carpeted floor next to her. That made it easy for Roscoe to reach through a slit in the curtain to take out—or slip in—whatever he wanted.

  Sometimes he thought his mastery of sleight of hand was being wasted on this con. In order to keep up his skills, he would pickpocket at least one unsuspecting shopper every time he hit the market.

  He walked around the curtain on the far side of the room. “Do you have the cards?”

  Tonya felt the pocket of her flowing skirt and nodded.

  He mouthed the words “bad news.”

  Didn’t she give the librarian bad news last time she was here? No matter. Roscoe would take care of it.

  He pulled back a small opening in the curtain and announced, “Sis-ter Na-ta-sha.”

  Tonya swept into the room, gliding into the chair like a buzzard coming in for a landing. She laid her palms flat on the table and closed her eyes, slowly rocking back and forth. She felt the heat from the candle on her face. Slowly, she opened her eyes as if coming out of a deep slumber. At last, she spoke in her best foreign accent. “You come again to see Sister Natasha. Why?”

  Betty swallowed hard and leaned in. “I want to know if my husband is having an affair?”