Cake and Taxes: A Yellow Rose Cozy Mystery (Yellow Rose Mystery Series Book 2) (4 page)

That evening, Betty was checking inventory and straightening up at the shop shortly after George had closed out the register and left for the evening.

Her ruminations were interrupted by the opening of the door at the front. Though the CLOSED sign hung prominently in the window, she sometimes left the front door unlocked since it was a small town and people generally respected everyone's sense of time and space. After the incident which followed, that policy would change.

Looking up from her work behind the counter she saw the faces of two men she didn’t recognize. The first one looked to be in his early fifties and was balding with a stomach that pushed against a T-shirt featuring an ’80s hair band currently on tour in Dallas. The second one looked a few years younger, was thinner, and sported a light gray jacket that overlapped the top of a pair of well-worn jeans.

“Howdy, gents,” Betty said, her Texas accent on full display. “I’m not open again until tomorrow. Feel free to stop by anytime after nine o'clock.”

The first man casually scanned the room. “We’re here to find out why you’re looking into the death of Marge Nelson,” he said in a raspy voice.

Betty's heart pounded hard in her chest. “Do tell,” she said, trying her best to keep her expression neutral.

“The police are investigating. There's no need for busybodies like yourself to interfere and muddy the waters, so to speak.”

“The Yellow Rose police are good,” Betty replied. “But they always appreciate the help of citizens. Encourage it, in fact.”

“Not this time,” the second man said.

Betty gave the men some thought. “Peaches and Cream,” she said with a nod.

“What’d you say?” said the first man, his brow furrowed.

“No wait,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Peaches and Herb is what I meant. American vocalist duo from the ’70s. You,” she said pointing to the first man, “remind me of Herb.”

“I don’t believe this,” the man said.

“Your friend reminds me of Peaches. Not sure why, since Peaches was a woman. Think it may have to do with the way he sauntered in. No offense, by the way.”  If Peaches was offended, his expression didn’t reflect it.

“I’m Betty Hitchens, though I’m guessing you knew that already. Feel free to tell me who you are at any point.”

“You think you’re so smart,” said Herb, “Why don’t you figure it out?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m working on it as we speak. The miniature drone buzzing around outside is uploading your photos to a face-analyzing program. I should know all in just a moment.”

Herb stepped over to the window and peered out.

“Made you look,” Betty said.

Herb reddened as he clenched and unclenched his fists. Neither he nor Peaches appeared to have a weapon hidden beneath their shirts, but Betty wasn’t so sure as to bet her life on it. She thought about dashing out through the back to escape, yet wasn't sure she'd make it out of the alley if they followed. She fought hard on an alternate plan.

“Bet you didn’t know the word ‘gullible’ isn’t in the dictionary,” she said getting the conversation going again.

“What?”

“Don’t worry. Peaches will explain it to you on the way out.”

“Boss ain't gonna be happy about this,” Herb said with a sneer.

“And who might that be?” Betty said.

Herb gave a tight smile.

Betty tried a different approach. “Anything you can tell me about Marge Nelson you think wasn’t covered in the news?”

“Rumor has it she had problems at home.”

“We’ve all got problems at home. My problems involve a cat who brings in live rodents plus grown children with life issues.”

“Yeah, but Marge Nelson tried solving her problems by making promises she couldn't keep.”

“That so?” Betty said.

Herb gave a satisfied nod, then turned and walked out. Peaches immediately fell in behind.

“Don’t be a stranger!” Betty called out, then immediately rushed to the front door and locked it as quickly as she could before collapsing into a nearby chair.

I probably shouldn’t have been so flippant,
she
thought.
You seldom learn things from people by being a smart aleck.
But like a burrito after a long night of drinking, she had a feeling the pair would soon return unless she immediately took some initiative.

*  *  *

Thirty minutes later, Betty was at The Shop. Her friend Ojudh was with a customer so she sat in one of the available chairs and feigned interest in one of the many tattoo magazines that were spread out on a nearby table.

When he was done, he came over and sat near Betty. Since she looked like she had something important on her mind, he waited for her to speak first.

Clearing her throat, she said, “Remember awhile back when you first got to town, and you needed help finding a place to settle into?” Betty said.

“That I do,” Ojudh said, recalling the memory.

“And do you remember saying that if I ever needed a favor, regardless of how big or how small, that you'd help me out?” Betty asked.

“Like it was yesterday,” the man said with a nod.

“Well, I'm calling in that favor,” she said.

The next day Betty worked in the bakery till noon, then took a break to run some errands. As she drove through the supermarket parking lot where she'd picked up a few items, she looked out of her right side mirror. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw Ned Robinson posting a sign that read
Town Meeting
in large red letters along the side of a nearby building.

Betty's instincts turned up to ten. She whipped her Explorer around, waited till Ned had moved on, then eased up and read the sign. It stated that there was going to be a gathering at his store after closing that night for people who felt their property taxes were too high and wanted to collectively protest their assessed value.

Betty decided now was as good a time as any to confront Ned. She hadn't talked to him since before Marge's death. She eased across the parking lot where he was taping up another sign. Shortly after he saw her pulling up, he froze, then dusted off his hands and walked hurriedly toward his car.

Forget it, Ned, I see you.

Without letting go of the wheel, Betty swerved behind the bumper of his car. Ned turned, exhaling hard. Betty walked toward his window and tapped lightly on the glass. She backed up a step as Ned exited his vehicle.

Betty smiled. “Could have simply said ‘hi’. What’s with the meeting at your store tonight?”

Ned scowled. “Look, you’re not a cop. And I’m not committing a crime. You wanna get out of my way?” Before Betty could answer, he got in his car and jammed the key into the ignition.

Betty kept the focus on him, looking at him through the driver's side window. Ned shook his head, glaring at Betty from his seat. He started his car and drove off, leaving Betty wondering what was going on and thinking she might need to work on her people skills.

*  *  *

That evening, Betty had gone online and found a blog dedicated to people who wanted to discuss the way Texas taxed its business owners. She found out that Ned had put out the word days before Marge's death about the meeting being held tonight. Her curiosity got the best of her. She drove over to the hardware store, parked, then quietly walked in and slipped into the back row several minutes after everything had gotten underway.

There were about thirty people in attendance. Ned had cleared out some space near the right side of his store and set up folding chairs for the attendees. Ned stated that the business owners needed to get organized and together protest to get things changed in the county. During the course of the time that Betty was there, various people got up and spoke. Most contributed intelligently to the conversation, which ran high with emotion at times. One man, though, was cut short when he began rambling on about personal problems he felt were tied to his struggling business and began making derogatory remarks about several of the appraisal district employees.

When Betty felt she'd heard enough she eased up out of her seat, exited the storefront, and headed home.

*  *  *

An hour later, Betty finished up with the dishes in the kitchen, then stepped outside for her evening ruminations, a half glass of wine in hand. Darkness crept into the neighborhood as she settled into one of the deck chairs. A light breeze blew through and took the edge off the humidity that clung to her with the stubbornness of a bad habit. She sat as still as she could, waiting for inner quiet to overtake her while fearing a thing she could not name.

With the exception of current events in the past few days, her life was on an uptick. Steady customers at the store. Bills current. Plus, her daughters and son-in-law were all in good health and doing relatively well. If only she could reduce the melodrama that had come with Marge's death. Maybe that should be her web site tag –
Betty Hitchens. Drama Junkie
. She doubted any other local business owners had laid claim to the title. Or would want to for that matter.

She once heard that contentment rests not in having more fuel, but in taking away some of the fire. Yet her rebellious side screamed
no,
that it was better to burn out than fade away. One thing she knew for sure was that life was full of contradictions. Another thing she knew with equal certainty was that it was growing late and she was unlikely to find definitive answers in the emptiness of a wine glass. Taking one last sip, she walked inside, watched the last half of a murder mystery on Netflix, then crawled into bed next to her cat, Zorro,and fell into a deep sleep.

Ojudh raised his arms above his head to get some circulation coursing through his body. Restless nights of sitting made him a little stir crazy. He almost started laughing, realizing how stupid he was. Sarah was practically begging him to come over to her place and keep her company, but here he sat, searching for clues about a boy who might not even be alive.

He’d never say that to Betty, of course. Parents and friends of the victims thrive on hope. If you take away their hope it’s like ending multiple lives instead of one. Most times the parents lose all sense of cooperation and don’t even want to aid anyone involved in finding them anymore. Partly, it was the reason why he didn’t want children. A man with a past like Ojudh had too many enemies.

His fear was that he could never keep them safe. And he didn't want the responsibility of the blood of his own children on his hands. There were some things he just had to accept in his short time on earth. It was better to recognize what’s not possible before it was too late. Besides, he’d seen it time and time again. There was nothing like the heartbreak of losing a child. His parents had lost his sister when she was only eight. Worst of all, they had a funeral without a body.

He still remembered it as if it happened yesterday. It was one of those lazy summers where he sat on the French porch late in the day and was about to go inside. Maria, his sister, and he had gotten ready for bed. She'd brushed her teeth, taken a bath, then headed in the opposite direction to her room. The last thing he remembered was reaching over and punching her in the arm. Maria had glared at him, and paused in the doorway before closing her door.

All that night, he worried about how she’d get even. She always liked to get even. Ojudh thought she’d come into his room and throw cold water on his face or some other prank that he couldn’t even imagine. He knew with absolute certainty that some horror awaited him the next day.

But nothing happened.

Nothing happened because the next day she was gone. And Ojudh never saw his eight-year-old sister again. His parents had put out a search for her. They held out hope until the police told them that in many cases where children disappear, they end up dead. When the hope had finally evaporated, his parents were not the people he knew anymore.

They become a shell of themselves. They completely shut out life from the outside. They shut him out, too. He never felt unloved, but things changed and they didn’t change back when he walked out the door at seventeen. He wanted to spare Betty that type of deep seething pain.

*  *  *

Ojudh had known Boone for about a year. He frequented the tattoo/coffee shop where he worked. He didn’t always have a lot of spare time, being the hired muscle for Alan Johnson. Alan was a private detective he respected who had once saved his life. Ojudh sometimes worked cases with him, sending him to talk to people who might be inclined to pound on others.

No one tried to pound on Ojudh. He was a little over six foot, packed with muscle and covered in tats. His name was Ojudh, and that’s all he ever gave people. Ojudh. No Mr. nothing. Just
Oh-ju
, and that’s it. He was originally from Belize. For now Yellow Rose was his home, a city where outsiders like him could fit in and feel comfortable as long as they showed respect to others.

He worked at the tattoo place slinging ink when needed, and slinging coffee when not. A lot of the younger crowd hung out there, some too young for tattoos but not for coffee. Boone was one of them. He was a good kid, tried a bit too hard to look tough, and he gave his mother a bunch of grief whenever he could, but overall Ojudh liked him and knew he was all right.

At one point Boone told him he felt like someone was following him. He had mentioned a gray van with a dented passenger door cruising around his neighborhood with increasing frequency, and even outside of The Shop. That was the name of the place, The Shop. Tattoo’s, coffee, both more creative than the name.

He started by looking for the van. He had some of the other kids who hung out at The Shop do so as well. Eventually a girl named Sasha told him she had seen a van fitting the description outside of her school, and again later that night near her home.

*  *  *

Ojudh went to her school the next day, sat in his aging car that was leaking coolant, and sweated, without seeing the van. He went to her home that night. Betty had asked to come along. That time, luck was with them.

“What are you thinking?” Betty asked, looking at Ojudh as his face hardened.

“Thinking about jumping out of my car, running down the street to where that van pulled up and having a talk with the driver. Hopefully without using my fists if he isn't in a cooperative mood.”

“But you know you can't. If you do, and whoever is driving the van has Boone, we might never see him again. If he spots you and he takes off, he'll stay gone. Let's sit and watch for awhile.”

Ojudh couldn’t see the driver. It was too dark. All he could make out was the shadow of a person sitting behind the wheel. He wondered if he had been seen. If so, the driver didn't show it. Around three a.m. the van’s engine cranked on and pulled away. Ojudh and Betty slid down in their seats as it drove by. Ojudh checked the driver out. The sight of his face sent a chill through him.

His name was Jeff Lewis. He'd worked at The Shop for about two weeks. He was a sketchy dude who'd cleaned up, then gotten busted stealing cash from Trent, the guy who owned the place. Ojudh sat up, cranked the engine, pulled into the street while turning a U, then headed off after the van.

He had tailed vehicles with Alan before, so he knew how to do it without being spotted. The van went through the heart of the city and then out the other side, driving along a lonely highway and getting off an exit a few miles past the city limits. The houses were small and dingy, and eventually the van pulled into a drive and disappeared into a garage. Ojudh drove past, turned the corner, then parked.

“Okay, here's the plan,” Ojudh told Betty. “I'm going inside. If I'm not back in twenty minutes, or if you hear gun fire, call the police.”

Betty nodded. “Okay. I think I can handle that.”

Ojudh had a gun with him, a present from Alan. He grabbed it from the glove box and got out of his car. He moved around to the garage. The door was shut. He went on to the front porch, peeked inside the window. He could see the empty living room and a staircase that led upstairs. There was a light on.

Ojudh tried the front door. It was locked. He went around to the rear of the house, and the door there was locked too. He pulled a metal tool out of his pocket, popped the lock and eased in. Inside the kitchen was a door leading down to the basement, slightly ajar. He saw a weird blue light and crept down the stairs.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, locking it after a quick thought, not wanting to arouse suspicion if Jeff came by the door while he was still inside. He was at the foot of the stairs, and began to climb them slowly. He held the gun in his right hand, out in front, the safety off but his finger not on the trigger. He paused halfway up the stairs, hearing a loud creak of movement in one of the rooms above him. He was still in the darkness, the faint light upstairs not reaching far enough to illuminate him. Jeff was there suddenly, walking by the top of the stairs. He moved across the room and then was gone. He hadn't seen Ojudh, who realized he was holding his breath. He let it out, then climbed the last of the stairs.

The light was to the right, a half-opened door just past a bathroom. Jeff had gone to the left. Ojudh could see him in the darkness in a room there, standing next to a bed, pulling his shirt off. He went towards the man, keeping his gun steady.

“Where is he?” Ojudh asked, stopping in the doorway. Jeff spun, dropping his shirt. His eyes widened, reflecting the silver moonlight streaming in through a nearby window. He grinned and dove towards the bed and grabbed a gun off the end table.

As he turned Ojudh took aim, let out a breath, and pulled the trigger. He was a big guy, but not too big for his Colt .45. Problem was, the gun misfired. There was a muffled thud as his weapon hit the floor. He scrambled for it. Jeff smiled, moved toward the doorway as Ojudh scrambled for his weapon. The man gave a crooked smile as he pointed his gun at Ojudh's chest. There was an electric hiss. Jeff's body vibrated, then fell to the ground. An arc of crimson sprayed across the floor as his face kissed the ground.

Ojudh looked up and saw Betty standing in the doorway, Taser in hand.

“I thought I told you to stay in the car,” he gasped.

“You did.”

“And?”

“Saw this guy entering the house after you did. Thought you might need an assist.”

Ojudh stared at her. “But I told you – ”

“It's been said by certain people that I have authority issues. Even when told what to do by friends.” Betty shrugged. “Maybe they're not totally wrong.”

“Amazing,” Ojudh said. “We'll talk later. Right now, there's still work to do.”

After searching the rest of the house, the pair finally found Boone down in the basement. He wore faded jeans, a torn shirt, and was tied to a metal pole anchored to the wall. There were dirty plates around him. He was on his side, a gag over his mouth, eyes wide and staring. His ankles and wrists were bound together. When he saw Ojudh and Betty, he closed his eyes and began to sob.

Ojudh pulled the gag from his mouth first, and when Boone spoke his voice was hoarse and raspy.

“Thank you,” he said over and over. Ojudh went upstairs to find a knife in the kitchen to undo the bonds. The blade slid through the thick ropes with ease. Boone's skin, where the bonds had been, was torn and bloodied. He was trembling and Ojudh was sure he wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.

The three didn’t speak the whole time they waited for the police. Ojudh didn’t know how long it took them to arrive, though it seemed as if it could have been years. He sat there, holding the teen, letting him cry. Finally there were sirens, and red and blue lights flashing in the windows. They came in quickly, streaming through the house and up the staircase. Ojudh and Betty gave their statements to an officer as an EMT evaluated Boone. They watched as Jeff was brought downstairs and loaded into a police vehicle. Hours later, Ojudh and Betty were cleared to go. He dropped Betty at her house. Soon she was in bed and sleeping the sleep of the dead.