Finding Floyd Page 13

  All of them, in one way or another, had been linked to Tony DePalma and his stash of laundered drug money. When the money was discovered in Ralph Spangenberg's tavern, Rodriguez had suspected him as well, but he'd been certain of the man's innocence. If Spangenberg showed up in Floyd too, it would close the deal for Rodriguez. He rubbed his forehead and frowned. The guy had gone off and retired somewhere. Where was it? His eyes rested on the fourth car with its Florida license plate. Holy crap. The guy went to Florida.

  He marshaled his thoughts, ticking off the facts as he knew them. Diane was an old friend of Sandy's, or at least that's what she said, so it was understandable she'd be here at the B&B. He'd have to verify that with Sandy. Immediately, he hated himself for even considering that Diane could be involved. When he'd shown the photo of Toricello to Jack and Vicky, he'd watched them closely and detected no sign of recognition, a point in their favor. They were here in Virginia, why? They said they were on vacation. So, why was Van Wart here? Is that little spitfire Theresa Buonadies here too?

  Most important, where was Bruno Toricello now? With a sigh, he realized that he had more questions than answers. He'd have to find a way to unravel everything and get to the truth without letting his attraction to Diane get in the way of doing his job.

  Chris smiled as he thought of her thick wavy blond hair, those perfect breasts with their little erect pink nipples, and her long slender legs. He knew his desire for her was affecting his judgment, but he wasn't sure he even cared any more.

  He sighed, got out of his SUV, and made his way slowly to the porch. From inside came the sound of voices. Quietly he eased open the kitchen door, and was met with the warm aromas of barbeque chicken and baking bread. His belly growled at him in protest.

  Diane looked up startled with tears in her eyes.

  "Are you all right? What happened?" he asked, resting a hand on her shoulder.

  She leaned against the sink, giving him a watery smile. "I was just worried about you. I wondered where you were. Are you hungry?"

  "Yeah, but..." He turned toward the dining room and listened to the laughter and talk. He easily identified the voices of Van Wart, the Conners couple and Ralph Spangenberg. So the big jolly tavern owner is here. He sighed. The strange coincidences were piling up once again.

  "Some of my friends in there still think you don't trust us." She followed his gaze for a second and turned to him, blinking back tears. "I think you do. At least, I think you trust me. You do, don't you?"

  Chris looked into her questioning eyes and grinned. "You know I do."

  She looked beautiful with her moist eyes and trembling lips. She took a step towards him and suddenly they were in each other's arms. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, clasped her hands at the small of his back, and held him tightly.

  His strong hands moved over her back and stroked her hair. Breathing in her scent, he sighed, relieved to hold her at last. "Let's go outside," he whispered in her ear.

  Diane lifted her head, pushed her hair off her forehead and nodded. They slipped silently out the door and Chris closed it behind them with the faintest click of the latch.

  In the dark at the end of the porch was a glider. Chris drew her down next to him, as he gathered her in his arms, kissing her deeply. The intensity of her response surprised them both, as she moved restlessly against him. Running her hands through his hair, she pressed him to her, deepening their kiss. Breathing in ragged gasps, he hooked one arm under her knees and lifted her across his lap, crushing his lips to hers once more. A whimper of pleasure sounded deep in her throat. One hand held her close, while the other caressed her hips, thighs, and finally her breasts, where his hand lingered.

  This time when their lips parted, they gazed into one another's eyes as Chris gently moved her shirt aside and lowered the lacy bra, revealing her soft round breasts. Diane gasped at the intense sensation as he dropped his head to tongue one hard nipple, while he gently teased the other.

  A door slammed and Diane tensed. The conversation grew louder as the others left the table and noise spilled into the kitchen. At the sound of running water and clattering plates, they reluctantly parted. Chris slid her clothing back into place and sighed.

  "I suppose, with so many guests here, there isn't a vacant room," he whispered.

  For a moment she hesitated, gazing into his deep blue eyes. Her brain urged caution, but everything else within her pulled in the opposite direction. She threw caution to the wind and whispered, "I know where there's one room with a vacancy."

  He brushed his lips ever so lightly across hers, his hand slipping higher on her thigh and resting just below where her legs met. She quivered beneath his touch.

  "Which one is that?" he murmured.

  "Mine," she answered and kissed him. She felt his hand move higher still and she shuddered with excitement.

  * * *

  "If you're going to puff on them foul smelling things, you can take yourself right on out to the garage like you always done." The old woman gave him a forbidding look. "My eyes are starting to burn already. Go ahead and take that chicken from the icebox if you want. I've had my fill of it."

  Who does she think I am? It sounds like she thinks I'm her husband. The guy must be long gone, thought Toricello.

  "Go on with you now. Take that stinky cigar and get yourself out to the garage. While you're about it, clean yourself up. Look at them muddy footprints all over my kitchen floor." She pointed with her cane and he glanced at his mud encrusted shoes and a trail of muddy prints from the back door.

  The old bat is crazy. This is great. I can take advantage of this. His lips parted in a wide grin, but he held the cigar firmly in place between his teeth. Not wanting to give anything away, he shrugged and grunted. Allowing the refrigerator door to close after removing the plate of chicken, he took a step back.

  "Go on! Get out to your room over that garage and don't come back 'til you're fit company." The old woman gestured with the cane toward the back door.

  He grunted, grabbed the chicken and retreated across the porch and down the steps. Not knowing what else to do, he made for the garage.

  At the back of it, he looked up a flight of steps to the second floor. Must be the doghouse the old lady sent her husband to when she was pissed off at him. He gnawed a drumstick and tossed the bone onto the ground. He was wet, tired and sore from his long trek through the woods and his wet trousers chafed him. Might as well break into this place and see what I can find.

  He mounted the stairs and stood for a moment peering through a dirty pane of glass, as he finished the fried chicken and carelessly tossed the bones over the railing. If the door was locked he could easily break in. It looked flimsy enough. To his surprise, when he turned the handle it opened with a painful squeal of long unused hinges.

  The atmosphere inside was stale and fetid. Everything was coated with a furry dust layer. He set his duffle on a chair and began to explore. Making a circuit of the room, he opened the windows to let in fresh air. On one wall was a small closet and next to it a small bathroom with a shower stall and toilet. There was an alcove with a sink and tiny kitchen area. Against the far wall an ancient couch and two chairs bracketed a stained and chipped coffee table. A dirty beige rug of indeterminable origin covered most of the floor.

  Without thinking, he turned on the water. Startled, he stepped back as the faucet erupted in a paroxysm of rattles and thumps. With one last groaning shudder it coughed out an unsteady stream of brown water. This spurted, stopped and started again and finally flowed freely. Guess it hadn't been used for a while. As he watched, the stream gradually cleared, but he wasn't sure he wanted to actually taste it. Trying a switch on the wall, an overhead light came on. At least the apartment still had running water and electricity.

  "This is perfect," muttered Bruno, looking around the room. "Yeah, my new home, for a while. Just dumb luck finding this place. And all I gotta do is keep that old bat believing I'm her husband. Yeah, I'll be Henry Shacklefor
d, he announced to the silent room.

  Systematically, he began investigating drawers and cupboards. He found an ashtray and stubbed out the butt of his cigar. In a cabinet above the sink, he discovered three quart mason jars filled with clear liquid. Taking one down, he unscrewed the rusted lid and was rewarded with an alcoholic aroma wafting up from the contents. He sniffed at it.

  "It's booze," he said amazed. He shrugged, lifted the jar to his lips and drank. Gasping, he sucked in about a gallon of air, as the fiery moonshine burned all the way down, landing in his stomach with a hot explosion. He coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand.

  "This shit would take some getting used to. Its booze all right, but it ain't exactly Napoleon brandy," he said, screwing the cap on and returning the jar to its place on the shelf. "Maybe in a pinch..."

  He crossed to the other side of the room, rooted in the duffle bag until he found his box of cigars and sat on the couch. He opened the box and selected one of the Arturo Fuente Gran Reservas. Flicking his lighter, he rolled the stick in his mouth, putting flame to the edge all around until it was lit to his satisfaction. He puffed, sat back and lifted his muddy shoes to the coffee table. He'd have to think about what to do next, but for now it was enough to know he had a warm dry bolt hole to hide in.

  "Yeah, I'm Henry Shackleford," he said aloud. The old lady obviously lives alone. For now, she could be useful. At some point, I'll probably have to eliminate her. I could snuff out the old bag and burn the place down with her inside and nobody the wiser. It looks like an old firetrap anyway. He removed his aviator sunglasses and dropped them onto the table. Drawing smoke into his mouth he held it for a few seconds and let it out in a great cloud, sighing with satisfaction. Ignoring the ashtray, he flicked ashes onto the carpet.

  Virginia Spoon Bread

  4 cups whole milk, scalded

  1 cup fine white cornmeal

  4 tablespoons butter

  1 1/2 teaspoons salt

  1 tablespoon sugar

  4 eggs, separated

  Beat the eggs whites until stiff and set aside.

  Whisk the cornmeal into the scalded milk and cook, stirring constantly until thick.

  Remove from heat.

  Whisk in yolks, butter, salt and honey.

  Fold in the egg whites and pour into a greased soufflé dish

  or deep round casserole about 1 1/2+ quarts.

  Bake in a 350 degree oven for about 40 minutes.

  Serve hot.

  Chapter 14

  "I tell you, Henry was here! Didn't I say all along, he never did drown in that lake? I just knew that rascal would show up here sooner or later," said Granny, thumping the floor with her cane for emphasis.

  "I reckon, Granny, if you say so," said Sarah, her eyes growing wide.

  "If I had my druthers, he'd stay away, but I'm still married to the no-good sorry excuse for a man. Don't look at me like that. I saw him I tell you. He was right here in this kitchen smoking one of his stinking cigars and raiding that there icebox!" she insisted.

  "Preston and his wife Sarah exchanged bemused looks. Turning back to Granny, Preston suppressed a grin.

  "We've brought some nice sliced country ham and biscuits for your supper. There's a little potato salad too. Is there anything you're needing from the market this week?" Sarah spoke to her eighty-nine year old grandmother with an indulgent soothing tone of voice.

  "I reckon not," said Granny gazing around the room and settling on the refrigerator. "Though now I think on it, if Henry is going to be around, you might could pick up a jar of them sweet pickles he always was partial to and maybe a couple cans of baked beans. I'll need more beer, what with the way Henry drinks it like water, and probably some potato chips. Get the low-salt chips. I'm not supposed to have too much salt. That's what the doctors says, and remember to use my credit card this time. I don't need no charity from you young folks."

  "Sure Granny. Whatever you want," said Preston opening cabinets and peering into the refrigerator. He saw plenty of beer and chips, making a mental note to cross those items off Granny's list. "We'll be by in a day or two, and Sunday we'll be here to collect you for church, okay?" He spoke even more slowly than his usual liquid drawl and a little louder than usual so the old woman was sure to hear. She nodded absently and turned toward the living room where she had the volume turned up on the television and the applause from a game show could be clearly heard.

  Outside, the young couple climbed into their pickup and smiled at one another. He toyed with the keys before starting up the truck and asked, "Do you think she's all right?"

  "Well, she does seem to be eating more. All that chicken was gone." Sarah held up the empty plate she'd left filled with fried chicken a few days earlier.

  "But do you think she's finally gone all the way round the bend?" asked Preston. "Now she's seeing ghosts. How long ago was it Grandpa Henry drowned in Smith Mountain Lake?"

  "It must be close to ten years now," said Sarah. "You know Pres, there are some who say that old people start to see and hear the ghosts of their dearly departed, just before they're getting ready to go themselves. I'm not saying I believe in all that, but..."

  "I do believe some folks are gifted with the second sight, but they're few and far between. Don't think Granny Shackleford is one of them though." He turned his boyish grin on her. "I wouldn't call Henry her dearly departed. As I remember it, when they found his boat overturned and reported him missing, she just said, 'Good riddance'."

  "Can you blame her? Poor old Granny, bless her heart." Sarah shrugged and ran one hand through her long blond hair, which fell below her shoulders. "God forgive me for saying so, but I don't have fond memories of my grandpa." Frowning, she turned her bright blue eyed gaze on her husband.

  "No, I don't blame her. She never would accept the fact that Henry died. Always insisted he'd run off with that trashy girlfriend of his. Can't recollect her name, but she lit out about the same time." Preston said. He studied Sarah's clear blue eyes and her heart shaped face with its perfect complexion, and then let his gaze roam over her perfect hourglass figure. Her full breasts and broad hips filled her jeans and blue work shirt. For an instant, their eyes locked and he reached out and gently stroked her cheek. She smiled. "I love you darlin' sweet thing and I'm glad you're nothing like your grandpa. "Let's get on home." He pulled onto the road and accelerated.

  "Poor Granny," said Sarah, looking out the truck's window at the view of distant Blue Mountains. "If she's really thinking that she's seeing and talking to Grandpa Henry, well, she just ain't right Pres."

  "I know. Maybe it's time we talk about getting her out of that old farmhouse and into a home, though I can't imagine she'd go for it. Funny, how she thinks Henry has come back. Can't say as she's even mentioned his name for years. I don't mean to speak ill of the dead, honey," Preston said soothingly to his wife. I know he was your grandpa and all, but Henry Shackleford wasn't known for being generous, or kind." He paused. "Wasn't known for his honesty or trustworthiness either. I'm just saying..."

  * * *

  Searching the long deserted apartment over the garage, Bruno found some ancient yellowing magazines, which still held the name and address of the recipients: Henry and Ethel Shackleford. They were turning out to be a source for everything he could possibly need to stay safe and well hidden. By the condition of the place, Henry was obviously long gone.

  In the closet he'd found some of Henry's clothing which was old enough to have gone out of style and come back in again. He now wore khaki slacks, a somewhat rumpled brown knit sweater and brown loafers. Everything fit, more or less. Wiping the grime from the bathroom mirror he appraised his appearance. "Not too shabby," he said to his reflection. He'd blend into any crowd and wouldn't be noticed, which was his intention. In addition to the clothing, he'd discovered a twelve gage shotgun propped at the back of the closet and on the shelf, a couple of boxes of shells.

  It was a damn shame that sooner or later he'd have to ice the old
lady. It was an uncharacteristic lapse into compassion for him, and he dismissed the thought immediately. Whatever needed doing, he'd have to do. He shrugged. She was old anyway.

  Further exploration down below in the garage revealed an old, but well kept, Toyota pickup truck ready and waiting for him. The gas tank was nearly full and the keys were in the cup holder by the front seat. He had a pocket full of cash, recently retrieved from his duffle bag and spread out to dry in the apartment. Things were beginning to go his way for a change.

  The truck started up right away. As he drove past her window, he glanced in the house, wondering if the old lady would notice he was taking it for a drive. He needn't have worried. She was in her recliner with her head sagging, asleep in front of the television.

  Letting the engine idle for a minute he tuned the radio to a classical music station. He was going to get what he'd needed to stay hidden, and he was going to do it far away, where the cops were not likely to be looking for him. Those stupid ass Feds were clueless anyway. He hummed along with the radio as he pulled onto the paved road and arbitrarily turned left. He'd get his bearings soon enough and find his way to the interstate, or so he thought.

  * * *

  "Okay okay, Colby, chill out! I can't believe I'm arguing with this stupid cat again," Diane mumbled under her breath, as she searched the cabinet where the cat food was kept. Shifting cans around, she checked every label, but there was none of his favorite fishy canned food. A personalized ceramic dish labeled, COLBY-JACK, was filled with dry food, but the cat ignored it. She went around to the pantry, where Ralph was able to find everything he'd needed the day before, and looked on every shelf.

  As she stood staring at the ranks of cans and bottles, her thoughts returned to the night before. Christopher Owen possessed some mad skills that she'd never dreamed existed. Their night together had been absolutely wonderful. Shuddering with delight, she recalled every moment, every touch and caress. From that first deep kiss, until far into the night, when they'd slept in each other's arms. When she'd woken up, long before the sun, Chris had vanished, without a word. Typical.