Hiding Gladys (A Cleo Cooper Mystery) (17 page)

TWENTY-NINE

Henri’s boat hummed efficiently
under me. I checked my watch. One o’ clock Sunday afternoon and the sun beat down from a cloudless sky. Already today I’d been trapped in a root cellar and tracked down despite my best efforts. Then I was threatened with a gun by a crazy—and I do mean
crazy
—person. I was exhausted, my body burned in the sun like I was standing next to a pit fire, and I had a trip of between four and five hours ahead of me, depending on boat traffic. But there was nothing to be done for it.

I ran through the facts to reassure myself: Nash couldn’t follow me if he couldn’t drive a boat and in all the time I’d known him, he’d never even mentioned one. If he couldn’t follow me, there was no way in hell he could know where I was headed. I wasn’t even sure the county still maintained the dirt road to my cabin. The last time I’d been there, I’d had to put my Jeep in four-wheel drive to climb over two downed pine trees and slog through the mire.

With one hand on the wheel and one digging through the storage bin under my seat, I found a small, very warm bottle of water but no hat and no sunscreen. I downed the water. It might have kept me from dehydrating, but less than thirty minutes later I had to pee. At times like this, I had to admit to penis envy. And no, I couldn’t hang over the side, as there were too many tourists on the waterway.

As soon as I cruised under the Surf City Swing Bridge, I swung a right into the Beach House Marina. A quick tie-up and instructions to the kid pumping gas to top off the tank, and I made for the facilities. Then, at a waterfront shop that caters to tourists, I paid a ridiculous price for a pink ball cap, which featured rhinestones spelling “Hot Stuff.” What can I say? It was the cheapest one they had. I also bought sunscreen, some granola bars, and a couple more bottles of water. As I was checking out, I looked around for a phone, but saw none.

“Will that be all, Ma’am?” asked an elderly clerk with gaunt, weathered features and Ben Franklin glasses.

“Uh … ” I hesitated, thinking of asking him if I could borrow his cell, but then who would I call? Having to confess to Bud that I’d lied to him and then ask for help? Not an option. Call the sheriff who had already ordered me to go home or risk being thrown into jail? I wasn’t going there either. No doubt about it, I had to straighten all this out myself, and I could too. All I had to do was find Gladys and everything would be fine.

“Yes,” I said with conviction this time as I picked up my purchases. “Yes, that will be all.” I usually kept the little essentials like these in my backpack, but since that was now at the bottom of Captain Eddie’s Marina, along with my gun and cell, I figured the snacks and water were prudent purchases. The thought of my baby nine becoming a home for a hermit crab brought a new stab of anger, but at least I still had the Ruger under my shirt. Having busted Nash Finley’s balls almost made up for losing the Beretta. Too bad I hadn’t known it was him that night at Irene’s house—I’d have savored the nut crunching even more.

Back on the dock, I was surprised to see the kid was still filling the tank. I gave a quick glance at the pump. Thirty-eight gallons. Could that be right? Most boats this size have twenty-gallon tanks. Hopping in the boat, I moved to the console and checked the bubble gas gauge on the side. A little over three quarters full. Then I realized what was going on. Henri must have had a fifty-gallon tank installed as a special option. Jeez. Fifty gallons at four-fifty a gallon. No wonder she rarely filled it up.

Consoling myself with the fact that now I wouldn’t have to stop more than once more in order to reach my destination, I gave the attendant my card and waited impatiently until he returned with it. He barely had time to flip my stern line inside the boat before I surged off. I turned my hot-pink cap around so it wouldn’t blow off my head, opened the throttle and continued north on the ICW. With all the summer boat traffic and more no-wake zones ahead of me, it would be at least six o’ clock before I reached my fish camp.

An hour later, I ripped open a granola bar and munched, then drained another bottle of water. Regardless of how much I drank, though, my mouth kept going dry because of the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. No doubt about it. I was scared to the point of nausea. But that was a good thing, right? It kept me on my toes.

The day was windless, the water glassy—“slick-cam,” as the locals call it. Perfect for pushing the skiff to its maximum speed. Twelve miles later at ICW mile marker 246, the transverse through Camp Lejeune Marine base, I breathed a sigh of relief seeing no flashing lights warning me of bombing exercises. Besides the fact that live-fire delays could last anywhere from hours to days, a 120mm shell through the hull would put a real crimp in my plans.

Planing off on the shimmering water, marsh grass on either side a blur, I thought of the many times I’d teased Henri about her gas-guzzling, macho Honda 150 engine. Now I was glad to have it
.

I soon passed Swansboro to port and then Emerald Isle to starboard as I went on and on, covering the length of Bogue Sound, slowing only for no-wake zones and barges big enough to crunch the skiff into splinters. At the Turning Basin at the Port of Morehead City, I caught another lucky break—no container ships to slow my progress. The US-70 bridge hummed with beach traffic as I passed under it then turned to port and headed north up Adams Creek to the Neuse River.

The hoarse squawk of a great blue heron rising from the marsh startled me as I left the creek and glided onto the Neuse. I looked back, making sure Nash wasn’t behind me. Even though I didn’t know if he could pilot a boat, it had become obvious that he was a pretty resourceful bastard. Not at all the happy-go-lucky type I’d pegged him for.

Traffic on the river picked up as I drew nearer to New Bern’s historic waterfront on my port side. I swept under the Neuse River Bridge, past Union Point Park, past the pre-Revolutionary homes along the river. At Bridgeton Harbor Marina, realizing I was running on fumes, I pulled over to fill up again and use the facilities. Only about fifteen or twenty minutes to go.

Marsh Island, smack in the middle of the Neuse River, just down from the abandoned quarry was a tricky place to navigate. Shoals, small fingers of sand, reaching out from the island shift constantly so I needed to be mindful of one of the most important rules of boating: don’t go where the birds are walking. Now at a reduced speed, I flipped my cap back around for the umpteenth time to further reduce the glare from the water.

I took the left fork beside the island, past the Hatteras yacht-building plant and then throttled down even more almost to an idle. The depth gauge showed enough water to support the boat, since the tide, which had been against me most of the way, was now on its way back in and working in my favor. I came to a small man-made canal, made a sharp turn to port and putt-putted along it until I saw what I was looking for: a break in the wall of the quarry.

The break, just the right size for a bass boat to squeeze through, allowed the Neuse River to flow into and flood the quarry, much to the delight of local fishermen.

I eased the boat between the sharp rocks projecting from the wall on either side of the break and began to weave my way across the 500-acre lake. Fortunately, I knew where the dragline had made its deepest cuts, how they connected to one another, and where the debris piles were. The sun angled low, burning my face under the brim of my cap and dancing in dazzling sparkles on the water, all but obscuring the shoreline. Not ideal conditions, but I pushed on. I had no choice.

At a little after six o’ clock, I let the boat bump lightly against the pilings holding up the dock in front of my shack. When the company ceased operations, the edges of the quarry had been graded on a 2:1 slope to the 40-foot dropoff point, in accordance with state and federal regulations. Perfect for a dock. I cut the engine and tied off with one of several spare lines lying higgledy-piggledy on the deck.

The old weathered shack beckoned peacefully in the dappled light that filtered through the branches of century-old live oaks. It was surrounded by a small yard—a clearing really, not much grass—which was surrounded by maritime woods. I trotted across the backyard, up the old wooded steps to the screened-in porch, then to the back door. I looked around to make sure I wasn’t being followed. No one. Just butterflies flitting through volunteer flowers in the remnants of a flower garden once tended by a woman named Opal.

The small screened-in porch looked just as it had the last time I saw it, except now the holes in the screen were larger. I reached up, ran my hand over the dusty door frame, and located my key.

I inserted it to unlock the door and started to push it open. A dry rustle sounded in the woods to my left. I made a little startled noise. Sweat trickled down my neck and back. The sound of a zillion bugs and birds suddenly stopped, reminding me of a bad horror movie. I stared deep into the woods. A busy opossum, getting a head start on his evening foraging, pushed through the undergrowth and trundled, nose down, into the yard.

Reaching under my shirt, I rubbed the butt of the little Ruger for reassurance, then stuck my head into the doorway.

Gladys sat at the broken-down kitchen table, a cup of tea poised mid-sip at her lips.

THIRTY

“Gladys,” I said, with
more of an edge to my voice than I intended. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been about you?”

She slowly lowered the cup and in the dwindling light, I saw her face crumple. She covered it with both hands.

“I don’t think I can survive this.” A ragged sob slipped from her lips. I knew the “this” she was referring to had nothing to do with our deal and everything to do with Robert Earle’s death.

“I’ve been such a fool,” she said through her fingers. “How can you ever forgive me? I’ve cost everyone so much. I’ve lost my son, my cousin … ” She dropped her head onto her arms on the table like a kindergartner at nap time. “It’s all my fault—”

“Oh, Gladys,” I interrupted her, “do you really believe this is all your fault?” I dumped my purse and pulled up a chair to take her hand in mine.

She lifted her head, tears rolled down her face. I got up and looked under the sink. Thankfully an ancient roll of paper towels, still fairly pristine, resided there. I snapped one from the roll and handed it to her.

She blew her nose and rose to pitch the towel in the trash can under the sink. I leaned back against the counter. “I just don’t know what to think anymore,” she said. “I know my children are spoiled rotten, but … but I just can’t believe they’re vicious.”

How could I tell her all the horrible truths I was now in possession of regarding the late Robert Earle and Ivan the Terrible? And what about Shirley? I still wasn’t sure where she stood in all this. For all I knew she was waiting somewhere for a call from me that I had her mom and all was well. Still, I damn sure didn’t plan on calling her to test the old “fool me once” adage.

Gladys closed the cabinet door, straightened, and looked out the window. “Is that your Bud?” she said, squinting in the glare and pointing in the direction of the dock.

Shit.
There was little point in looking; I knew it wasn’t Bud. It had to be Nash. I whipped around and looked anyway. “Shit,” I said aloud this time. “It’s Nash.” How did this guy do it?

“Who?”

“It’s a long story. Just believe me when I say that trouble has now arrived at our door and if we don’t do something fast, he’ll come right in and shake our hands like he’s your best friend. Where’s your car?” I called over my shoulder as I ran to the front of the house—the only other room—and looked out the window. I didn’t see one. “How’d you get here?”

“Taxi partway. Road was out, so I walked the rest.”

“Crap.”

I ran back into the kitchen. Nash had secured his boat—a fancy yellow Key West he’d probably stolen—to the dock. It was smaller than Henri’s, around eighteen feet. He looked at the house, flipped out his cell, and made a call. I could tell by his arm motions that he was giving someone directions. What the hell?

“We’re going to have to make a run for my boat, Gladys. It’s our only way out of this.”

“What’s going on? We aren’t in any real danger, are we? I mean, I’ll just refuse to sign the stupid Power of Attorney and we’ll leave. Simple as that.”

“Come on, Gladys, you don’t really believe that. You came here because your common sense told you to. That little voice that guides us all in times of danger told you if you could just ride this out somewhere until the legalities were over, you’d be safe. Am I right?”

“No. Well, yes. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe I just came here because … because I can’t handle any more of this. I haven’t even buried Irene yet and now I’ve got to deal with my son’s funeral and … poor Shirley, she’s helpless … ”

“Gladys!” I shook her by the shoulders. “We haven’t got time for this right now.” I nodded my head in Nash’s direction. “That is a very bad man. He’s in league with your new son-in-law.”

“Son-in-law?”

“Ivan,” I said, looking back to Nash still on his cell. “He married Shirley Friday at the same time”—I hated to do it, but I had to convince her, somehow, of our imminent peril—“at the same time that Robert Earle was hiding in your room at Seahaven, waiting to ambush you and force you into signing the Power of Attorney … one way or another.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. The sheriff told me he had the papers stuffed in his pants when he … fell. It gets worse … Nash and Ivan … I believe they’re behind everything that’s taken place.”

“What? Oh my God. Shirley,” Gladys said. “Shirley could be in danger.”

Okay, I could go with that if it would get Gladys moving. “Absolutely right. With you out of the picture, Shirley inherits everything. She could be in serious danger, so, here’s what we’re gonna do.”