Hiding Gladys
Lee Mims
Hiding Gladys A Cleo Cooper Mystery
Midnight Ink
woodbury, minnesota
Hiding Gladys: A Cleo Cooper Mystery © 2013 by Lee Mims. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2013 Book format by Bob Gaul Cover design by Ellen Lawson Cover illustration by Ken Joudrey Back cover: Paisley pattern © iStockphoto.com/ShutterWorx Editing by Nicole Nugent Map by Bob Murray Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Mims, Lee, 1948– Hiding Gladys: a Cleo Cooper mystery/Lee Mims.—1st ed. p. cm. ISBN 978-0-7387-3423-1 I. Title. PS3613.I591995H53 2012 813'.6—dc22 2012021932 Midnight Ink Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. 2143 Wooddale Drive Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America
For my family, with love.
Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long results of Time. —Alfred Lord Tennyson
RALEIGH Cleo’s Hometown
Pam
70
lico
ve Ri
r
17
40 Flooded Rock Quarry
Cleo’s Cabin NEW BERN
58
17
eR
ive
r
58
s Neu
70
JACKSONVILLE
140
WILMINGTON
17
River New
CAMP LEJEUNE MARINE CORPS BASE
(IC way Water Intracoastal SURF CITY TOPSAIL BEACH
WRIGHTSVILLE BEACH ”Seahaven” (Bud’s old family summer home)
Bridge & Bridge Tender Restaurant 10 mi
Stella Silverdale
Gladys Walton Farm (Quarry Site)
Adams Creek Canal (ICW)
W)
Bogue Sound
MOREHEAD CITY BEAUFORT
ON E
Did you know that rattlesnakes don’t rattle? They buzz, actually. Sounds like an angry hornet in a jar. Now, I’m a field geologist and have had some real-life experience with these nasty-tempered creatures, so you can imagine my concern when I thought I heard one while tooling down Highway 70 east in North Carolina at seventy-five miles an hour. Though I was inclined to believe my imagination was being fueled by a large Mickey D’s iced caramel coffee, I muted Stevie Ray Vaughan on the classic rock channel anyway and listened intently. Hearing nothing, I turned the music back on, glanced up to the rearview mirror, and got absolute confirmation that my day had just taken a decidedly bad turn. Slithering along the top of the backseat was an eastern diamondback, flicking its tongue, menacing, outraged at being in unfamiliar surroundings. Every muscle in my body tensed—a good thing, or I’d have wet my pants. Yet, frozen with fear as I was, I was still at the wheel of a moving car. Behind me, a horn blared. Jerking back into 1
my lane, I overcorrected. My tires dropped off the right side of the pavement and roiled a trail of dust and road debris until I regained control. I began to brake and looked back at the rearview. The snake was gone. Just then, Tulip, the sweet young deerhound who’d recently adopted me, stood up in the cargo area and sniffed the air. A fortypound dog ricocheting about inside the Jeep slinging a rattler in her jaws … not good. Nervous sweat dripped down between my breasts even as the conditioner blasted frigid air in my face. Worse, little black dots were floating before my eyes. Perfect. I was going to pass out. Calm down. Breathe. To survive this, I needed a plan. At that very moment, my uninvited passenger came up with his own, sticking his head out from under the seat right between my feet. Forget calm: I shrieked like a banshee, popped my seatbelt, and jerked my legs up under me. Sitting on my feet and still screaming, I held on for dear life as the Jeep careened down the wide shoulder of the raised roadbed. With a jaw-slamming jolt, the vehicle dropped into a drainage ditch and slid forward, spewing mud, grass, and last year’s cattails like slush from a snowplow until everything came to an abrupt halt. Everything but me, that is. Sans seatbelt, I flew across the car, crashed into the space between the dash and the windshield, then bounced headfirst back on the passenger seat.
For a moment, the world stopped. There was dead silence. Next thing I knew, I was breaking land-speed records in an open-field 2
dash through soybeans. Tulip streaked past me like a black and tan missile. About mid-field I stopped to gasp for breath. Slowly, things started coming back into focus as I heard the mechanical buzzing of cicadas in the dense woods beside the bean field and felt the intense rays of the July sun beat down on my back. Tulip’s tags tinkled merrily as she bounded back to me and sat at my feet. I stroked her bony head, straightened up, and stomped back between the lush rows of hip-high plants to the edge of the field. The sight of my beloved Jeep covered in muck and grass was enough to make me want to sit right down and cry. It looked like a wounded beast that had given up a long struggle to extricate itself from some tar pit and now lay waiting to die. Where was my purse? In the Jeep, of course. Traffic whizzed by me as I warily crept up on the vehicle like … well, like it had a rattlesnake in it. Then I had a thought and patted the back pocket of my jeans. Thank you, Jesus. Instead of putting my cell phone in my purse, I’d shoved it in my back pocket, my new attempt to curb the bad habit of talking while driving. I pulled it out and checked to see if it had been damaged in the melee. It hadn’t. Flipping it open, I grimaced, rolled my eyes even, but there was nothing else I could do. I had to call my ex-husband for help. Yes, I could have called the roadside service my insurance provided, but I needed help now, and I suspected there was a good chance Bud was on this very highway headed home to Raleigh from the North Carolina coast. He always waited until Monday mornings to return, wanting to avoid Sunday traffic. He answered immediately. “Cleo, babe,” he chirped. “What a pleasant surprise.” Bad as I hated it, I said, “Hey, Bud? Are you on the way back from the coast by any chance?” 3
“Yeah. You sound funny. You okay?” “I’m fine. I just need a little assistance … getting out of a ditch.” “Ditch! What happened? Where are you?” Just the macho overreaction I’d expected. “Calm down,” I said and gave him my location.
Tulip and I were just settling down under a pine tree at the edge of the field to wait for Bud when the sound of a vehicle braking got my attention. I looked up and saw a black Ford Explorer pull onto the shoulder of the highway then back up, firing a hail of gravel against its undercarriage. I stood, holding tightly to Tulip’s collar. Even before I could read the vanity license plate—ROCK MAN—I knew who it was. My heart started pounding again, but this time it felt good. Nash Finley climbed out of the black SUV and hurried over. His attire—khakis, polo shirt, and Doc Martens—made it obvious he wasn’t doing field work. I wondered what he was doing down east. “Oh my gosh, it is you,” Nash said, concern showing in his face. “I saw the Jeep in the ditch and thought it might be yours. Glad to see you’re okay.” Then his face broke into a large grin. “I know you didn’t drive off the road because you were putting on eye liner. What happened?” “Nothing I can’t handle,” I replied sweetly. Raising an eyebrow, Nash looked at the Jeep then back at me and tried again. “Seriously, Cleo, what happened?” He bent and scratched Tulip behind the ears. She returned his attention with a lukewarm tail wag.
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“I’m not real sure.” I wasn’t sure why I was lying to Nash, except that I’ve learned the hard way not to give another geologist unnecessary information. Any talk of how a snake came to be in my car would naturally lead to where I’d been and what I’d been doing, and that was definitely not something I wanted to discuss—especially with the clever Mr. Finley. Nash worked for a small independent quarrying operation in the western part of North Carolina. I’d met him there over a year ago when that company hired me as an acquisitions consultant. I was divorced at the time and had been for four years, but my heart was still bruised. Besides being very smart, Nash was funny and lighthearted, the kind of guy who makes you feel special. When my consulting gig ended, he’d come to Raleigh a few times and we’d had dinner. I wanted to get to know him better, but then he stopped calling. I’d wondered why and still did, thinking maybe it had been the distance. “Long time, no see,” I said, forcing a casual tone. “What have you been up to lately?” “Haven’t you heard, sweet pea? I’m working for GeoTech now. Sales.” That explained the attire, but it still came as a surprise. GeoTech was the company I’d worked for before I left to start my own consulting business. I said, “Really? Hung up your rock hammer for good, did you?” “Yeah,” he said. “More money in sales. Right now, however, I’m interested in rescuing you.” He stepped closer and rubbed my back in comforting little circles. “Maybe you fell asleep.” I felt my shoulders relax a little. A slight hint of Hugo Boss cologne floated on the humid air. “You never know … ” I murmured,
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leaning into his warm hand. I was feeling a bit cold now that the adrenaline jolt had worn off. “Let me call triple A,” Nash said, pulling out his cell. “Then I’ll get you right home and make you a drink. You look like you could definitely use one.” Oh shit. Bud. He was already on his way, and there wasn’t a chance in hell I could call and get him to carry on with his day. “Really, Nash,” I stammered. “I can take care of—” The blaring horn of a white pickup drowned me out as it roared past us heading west. I turned to watch my ex-husband flash his brake lights and left-hand blinker. I looked back at Nash. “So how did I get lucky enough to have you happen by right now?” Nash tracked Bud’s progress as he slowed for a crossover about half a mile up. Then, turning to me, he said, “I’m headed to a couple of the down-east quarries, just checking on supplies, making sure all my contracts can be met. You know, the usual.” “Well, I appreciate your stopping, but I’d already called Bud and … you know how he is,” I said lamely. The truth was, how could Nash not remember? Bud had a habit of “just happening” to drop by the same restaurant in Raleigh where Nash and I were dining. Either he had a network of spies or else had managed to slip a homing device into my Jeep. But you have to admit it would be a pretty advanced tracer that would know to locate me only when my companion was male. “Yeah, I remember,” Nash said. Then, offering me another grin— an apologetic one this time—he turned to leave. Giving a little wave, he climbed into his SUV. “You’re in good hands,” he assured me and roared off just as Bud whipped across the grass median at one of those places reserved for Highway Patrol and emergency vehicles. 6
“Oh, shut up,” I said to Tulip, still holding tightly to her collar as she strained to run to Bud. The mere sight of him generally sent her into quivers of delight. She whimpered and gave a dry hack as I pulled her down on her haunches. My ex-husband, Franklin Donovan Cooper IV—ever grateful to have been nicknamed Bud—climbed out of his 4x4 Chevy and strode purposefully toward me. “What was that jerk doing here?” he demanded. “I’m fine,” I said. “Good of you to ask, though.” “Oh. Sorry.” He squatted to pat my wiggling hound. “You okay, Tulip?” Then he straightened, looked over at my Jeep, and said, “What the hell happened? And, again, what was that jerk doing here?” “Obviously, I lost control,” I said testily. “And Nash isn’t a jerk. He just happened to pass by on his way down east. He’s working in Raleigh now.” “Uh-huh,” Bud said, then turned his attention back to my sorrylooking vehicle. I followed him for a few steps, then stopped and called out, “And before you go any closer, where’s your Glock?” “In my truck. Why? Where’s your baby nine?” “Still in there with the rattler,” I said, referring to my Glock 9mm. In case you’re wondering, I carry a gun because my workplace is the great outdoors. Bud carries a gun because besides being an enthusiast, he’s an Eagle Scout. Always prepared. Bud stopped in his tracks and backed up a few steps. “Rattler?” “Yeah.” He executed a quick about-face and walked back to me. “You want to start at the beginning, Cleo?”
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“Well, I was heading to Gladys Walton’s house to make sure she knows what to expect when the drill crew comes in next week and … ” I stopped at the look of confusion on his face. “What?” “Who’s Gladys?” If I’d been a cartoon character, my head would have inflated like a balloon and steam would have geysered out of my ears. “You see?” I said. “This is why we aren’t married anymore. No matter how many times I tell you what I’m doing, you don’t seem to remember. Could it be that what I do is of no importance to you?” “Could it be that you don’t do anything that’s all that important? Anyway, since you barely make enough money to keep body and soul together, this … this private consulting business of yours”—he said it like it was a disease—“shouldn’t be important to you either.” Hands on hips, I glared at Bud. He glared back at me. Finally, he sighed and said, “What do you say we skip the oldies but goodies. Just tell me how a damn snake got in your car.” “Fine.” I crossed my arms over my chest, regained my composure, and continued. “Honestly, I don’t have a clue how it got in there.” Bud pondered the question only about two seconds, then said, “Well, considering all the places you take that Jeep, it probably just crawled in. Where have you been today? Besides this Gladys person’s house.” My eyes narrowed and I squeezed my lips together until I had control of my words. “I haven’t been to her house yet, and just for the record, she owns the land I have an option on. I was headed there to prepare for test drilling. The only place I’ve parked since last night is my house and McDonald’s in Goldsboro this morning. I was only inside a few minutes.” “Did you lock the doors?” 8
“Probably,” I said, looking to the clouds for clarity. “But just as probably not,” I conceded. Bud was quiet for a few moments as he stared at the Jeep, chewing the inside of his cheek—an irritating habit I shouldn’t have to put up with anymore. Then he pointed. “Whoa! Looks like that snake’s feeling right at home.” I looked and sure enough there was the rattler, stretched out on the dash enjoying a little sunbath. “Bud. Are you going to help me out here or not? I’m kind of pressed for time.” He looked at me, tilting his head. “You going to feed me dinner tonight?” “Sure,” I said without a trace of guilt, despite the fact that I knew I wouldn’t be back home in Raleigh for several days. “You throwing in some dessert too?” He asked as he slipped an arm around my waist and leaned in to nuzzle his nose behind my ear. “I mean, it is a rattlesnake … ” I pushed him away, giving the same little smile that was second nature after twenty years of marriage. It committed me to nothing. It left the door open, though, and okay, I know—that was bad. So was the fact that since our divorce was finalized almost five years ago, we’ve both slipped up and slid back together from time to time. But in my defense, old habits are hard to break and I was very young when I married Bud, only twenty years old. I’m forty-five now, but that doesn’t mean I’m not human. Moreover, every time a slip-up has happened, some type of unusual situation was involved. And I’ve been very stern with myself afterward and made stronger resolutions never to let it happen again. And seriously, no way was I was going to deal with a rattlesnake on my own if I didn’t have to. 9
Apparently Bud took my smile to mean a maybe because he slapped his palms together, gave them a little rub, and said, “Alrighty then. Let’s get you on your way.”
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T WO
In less time than it takes me to make a pot of coffee, Bud got the snake out of the Jeep and the Jeep out of the ditch. He just opened the passenger door and slapped the windshield a couple of times. I held tightly to Tulip’s collar as the intruder slithered out and into the grass. Then Bud chained the Jeep to his truck and I steered while he pulled me out. Well, he definitely wasn’t getting dessert for something that easy. A quick good-bye wave and I was off again. My Jeep now resembled a camouflaged combat helmet with clumps of broom straw and black mud covering it, but it still ran. I’d deal with the mess later. Little over an hour later, after leaving Highway 70 for 58, I turned onto Morristown Road, then Wetherington Landing Road, heading deeper and deeper into lowland farming country in Onslow County. I passed through the town of Stella and took a right onto Belgrade Swansboro Road before reaching the settlement of Silverdale, then navigated a few more backcountry roads. Finally I 11
reached Gladys’s five-hundred-acre farm. A little research had revealed that the old two-story farmhouse was once the hub of an even larger working farm back in the early 1930s. Though Gladys kept the house in fairly good condition, it would need a ton of upgrades and renovation to make it marketable. Marketability wasn’t a concern for Gladys, however. She was in her seventies and planned to use the money she’d get from me to set herself up in a very nice assisted-living facility. Shutting off the engine, I noticed that neither her car nor her housekeeper’s, who cleaned daily, was in its usual place. Should I come back later? I decided to soldier on. I wanted to get this show on the road. After all, I’d waited a lifetime for a geological break like this and now my ship was finally coming in. There being no doorbell, I tapped the heavy pine door with the brass knocker. No one answered. I tapped again, humming an impatient little tune. A gentle breeze ruffled the leaves in the old oaks that overhung the wide porch but gave little relief from the stifling July heat. Just as I lifted the knocker to tap louder, the door flew open, making me jump like a startled rabbit. Standing in his socked feet—explaining why I hadn’t heard his approach—was Gladys’s thirty-four-year-old, live-in son, Robert Earle. He was resplendent in plaid boxers, a sweat-stained wife beater, and a buzz-cut. Tattoos wiggled on his biceps as he braced his arm against the door. I knew that his pumped-up physique wasn’t the result of manual labor that might have done him some good and made him a little money, but rather the result of his hobby: pumping weights recreationally. I curbed the impulse to tilt my head down to the spot where his gaze had come to rest: my breasts. “Hi, Robert Earle, is your—” “What the fuck are you doing here?” 12
Though he’d never been even the tiniest bit friendly, such flatout rudeness almost threw me off my game. Almost. I said pleasantly, “I’m here to see your mother. Is she here?” “No, she’s not,” he snapped, taking a step back to close the door. “Now get lost.” “May I ask where she is?” “Are you deaf, retarded, or what?” “Look,” I said, ditching Miss Manners, “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think of me, but your mother, besides being a friend, is also a business partner of mine.” “What kinda business partner?” said Shirley, who’d now come up behind her brother. She was also a thirty-something, live-athome adult. Her plain face was less than enhanced by the heavyframed glasses and the trench they’d worn into the bridge of her nose. She adjusted the specs with her index finger and sneered, “She didn’t mention any partnership to me.” “Be that as it may,” I said with commendable patience, “I have a signed option to test this property, all nice and legal, and I intend to do just that starting next week. I wanted to speak to your mother about what to expect once the drill crew’s here.” Robert Earle’s eyes bulged and I saw the tendons working across his jawbone. His fists clenched. Apparently alarmed, Shirley put her hand on his bunched biceps. “Now, Robert Earle … ” She didn’t get any further. “You’ve got nothing of the kind. Now get off this porch before I toss your fancy butt over that railing.” He was dead wrong, of course, but I had no desire to be tossed into the sticker bushes. So undignified. I backed up a step and said, “Tell your mother I’ll be by in the morning to see her.”
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Somehow I managed to affect a leisurely stroll to my Jeep. Well, my fancy butt may have been the tiniest bit tucked. Tulip let out a low growl as I slid behind the wheel. One thing about my new hound, she knew a varmint when she saw one. “Good girl!” I told her. Waving cheerfully, I headed down the drive. At the intersection with the main farm road, I stopped. Who else might know where Gladys is? One person came instantly to mind. I turned right and headed her way.
Patches of sunlight dappled the dirt path that led to a modest 1950s cinder-block tenant house on a corner of Gladys’s farm. I steered carefully between pines and pin oaks and thought back to a conversation I’d had with Gladys one morning when she told me that Irene Mizzell wasn’t really a housekeeper. She was, in fact, Gladys’s first cousin. When Irene’s husband, a shrimper from Harker’s Island, passed away, Gladys had offered her the tenant house and some money to tide her over until she got a job. Chuckling, Gladys had told me how the first morning after Irene moved to the farm, she’d turned up in Gladys’s kitchen, making breakfast. Irene had been cooking, cleaning, and helping with the chores ever since. I searched my memory for how long ago Gladys had said that was … maybe twenty years. My knock on the front door of Irene’s house startled a barn swallow out of the mud nest she’d built in the corner of the green and white aluminum awning over my head. I looked around the prim little yard. I was sure the Honda Accord parked in the dirt drive was Irene’s. Everything was neat as a pin. Bedding plants bloomed in front of a low hedge of compacta holly. Three hummingbirds battled 14
for the meager drops of sugar water left in the feeder hanging from a window awning that matched the one over the stoop. How long did it take for birds to empty a feeder? Hours? Days? I’d met Irene a few times and she didn’t seem to be one to let her feeders run low. I knocked on the door again, paused a beat, then walked over to a picture window and peered in. What I saw was just your average modest little den, with a LaZ-Boy facing a portable television that sported rabbit ears and a jarringly modern converter box. The recliner was topped by an afghan crocheted in a zigzag pattern that faded from deep maroon to pale pink. I walked around to the back of the house, looked in a few more windows, and checked the back door. It was locked too. Well, hell, it was a good idea to try Irene, but it really didn’t matter that she wasn’t here, maybe off for a walk. Gladys was bound to be home tomorrow. I had plenty to do in the meantime. Tulip and I got back in the Jeep and headed for the back of the property to start laying a grid for testing.
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