Bait & Switch (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 1) by Jerusha Jones Page A
Authors: Jerusha Jones
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That boy disappears like vapor. I’m lucky he still shows up for meals.”
I took a deep breath, held it, then plunged in. “I have something you need to know too — why I’m here.” I gave him the big picture, the big unknowns. I tried to leave my personal speculation out of the account, just stick to facts. From the intensity of Walt’s frown, I figured he could hypothesize as well as I could.
“You’re expecting them to contact you, here?” he asked.
“I hope so. It would mean he’s still alive.”
“How long are you going to wait?”
“As long as it takes.”
Walt did the jaw clenching thing again. “Are you going to find out why? Skip doesn’t deserve this.” He exhaled long and hard, took his mug to the sink and rinsed it out. “Only met him twice. But given his history, his rough childhood, he really understood what the boys need. Mostly time and space.” Walt leaned against the sink and crossed his arms. “I’m having trouble putting the two together. The good and the alleged bad. You too, I expect.” He stared.
The beam of his full attention was disconcerting. I preferred his fascination with the window.
“You need anything, you’ll tell me?” he asked.
I half shrugged.
“Yes. You must. The boys will help too. They don’t know their benefactor, but they’re good workers. I’ll send over a crew this afternoon to set up living quarters for you. Won’t be fancy, but it’ll do.”
I left the bunkhouse with instructions to follow the muddy rutted track that started behind Walt’s parked pickup. I was to follow the right-hand path at the first fork and the left-hand path at the second. He assured me the track would eventually pass by the main house.
I also came away with a fierce determination to make sure Walt and the boys didn’t suffer from Skip’s absence. I needed to find out how they were being funded and ensure the support continued. Maybe in that process, I’d find clues about my other problems.
Follow the money. I didn’t even need to write that age-old principle in my notebook. Clarice would be proud of me. If it worked.
CHAPTER 8
It took me close to an hour to find the main house. I thought I followed Walt’s directions, but navigation has never been my strong suit. But the time wasn’t wasted.
Blue gaps started appearing between the clouds, and slanting rays winked amid thick trunks in moist, sparkly shafts. The tree branches still dripped a soft patter, almost like a polite golf applause for the spectacular display the forest was putting on. Green — I’d never seen so many different shades of green, from the brilliant chartreuse of lichen clinging to craggy bark to the black-tinged emerald moss mounded over fallen logs and stumps.
The trees came in all shapes and sizes and colors, from smoothly conical and teal-tipped to scraggly with droopy branches. It was a wild, time-worn forest and strictly volunteer, not a crop mass planted in tidy rows by a lumber company.
Between the exercise and the scenery, my mind settled on the reality of my new situation, and my to-do list grew. Once I identified action steps, I started feeling better, more purposeful and less lost.
I did a quick check for sneaky farm animals in the vicinity before pulling open the kitchen door.
Clarice was bent over the sink, scrubbing, her elbows pink from the exertion. A giant handkerchief scarf printed with neon lemons and limes bound her bouffant, and she had a ruffled red apron tied around her middle. The floor shone with wet patches, and I froze, my foot dangling a few inches above a cream-colored tile.
“Don’t bring those muddy boots in here,” Clarice growled without turning around.
“Yep,” I replied, hopping to keep my balance. I leaned on the doorframe to untie my laces.
“You need to get rid of that rental. Racking up unnecessary expenses. We’ll have to implement austerity measures.”
“Yes,” I said
I took a deep breath, held it, then plunged in. “I have something you need to know too — why I’m here.” I gave him the big picture, the big unknowns. I tried to leave my personal speculation out of the account, just stick to facts. From the intensity of Walt’s frown, I figured he could hypothesize as well as I could.
“You’re expecting them to contact you, here?” he asked.
“I hope so. It would mean he’s still alive.”
“How long are you going to wait?”
“As long as it takes.”
Walt did the jaw clenching thing again. “Are you going to find out why? Skip doesn’t deserve this.” He exhaled long and hard, took his mug to the sink and rinsed it out. “Only met him twice. But given his history, his rough childhood, he really understood what the boys need. Mostly time and space.” Walt leaned against the sink and crossed his arms. “I’m having trouble putting the two together. The good and the alleged bad. You too, I expect.” He stared.
The beam of his full attention was disconcerting. I preferred his fascination with the window.
“You need anything, you’ll tell me?” he asked.
I half shrugged.
“Yes. You must. The boys will help too. They don’t know their benefactor, but they’re good workers. I’ll send over a crew this afternoon to set up living quarters for you. Won’t be fancy, but it’ll do.”
I left the bunkhouse with instructions to follow the muddy rutted track that started behind Walt’s parked pickup. I was to follow the right-hand path at the first fork and the left-hand path at the second. He assured me the track would eventually pass by the main house.
I also came away with a fierce determination to make sure Walt and the boys didn’t suffer from Skip’s absence. I needed to find out how they were being funded and ensure the support continued. Maybe in that process, I’d find clues about my other problems.
Follow the money. I didn’t even need to write that age-old principle in my notebook. Clarice would be proud of me. If it worked.
CHAPTER 8
It took me close to an hour to find the main house. I thought I followed Walt’s directions, but navigation has never been my strong suit. But the time wasn’t wasted.
Blue gaps started appearing between the clouds, and slanting rays winked amid thick trunks in moist, sparkly shafts. The tree branches still dripped a soft patter, almost like a polite golf applause for the spectacular display the forest was putting on. Green — I’d never seen so many different shades of green, from the brilliant chartreuse of lichen clinging to craggy bark to the black-tinged emerald moss mounded over fallen logs and stumps.
The trees came in all shapes and sizes and colors, from smoothly conical and teal-tipped to scraggly with droopy branches. It was a wild, time-worn forest and strictly volunteer, not a crop mass planted in tidy rows by a lumber company.
Between the exercise and the scenery, my mind settled on the reality of my new situation, and my to-do list grew. Once I identified action steps, I started feeling better, more purposeful and less lost.
I did a quick check for sneaky farm animals in the vicinity before pulling open the kitchen door.
Clarice was bent over the sink, scrubbing, her elbows pink from the exertion. A giant handkerchief scarf printed with neon lemons and limes bound her bouffant, and she had a ruffled red apron tied around her middle. The floor shone with wet patches, and I froze, my foot dangling a few inches above a cream-colored tile.
“Don’t bring those muddy boots in here,” Clarice growled without turning around.
“Yep,” I replied, hopping to keep my balance. I leaned on the doorframe to untie my laces.
“You need to get rid of that rental. Racking up unnecessary expenses. We’ll have to implement austerity measures.”
“Yes,” I said
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