Read Online Cash & Carry (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 4) by Jerusha Jones - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jerusha Jones
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landed another job that paid enough for her to rent her own apartment. I hadn’t asked if Laney was happy at her new job.
CHAPTER 8
Highways and byways. I needed to wrap my head around a bunch of stuff. Which is why I’d added a stop at the freight terminal to my list of errands. Loretta and Emmie waited in the pickup while I ran inside.
There was a huge map of the United States with all the interstate highways marked in red on the wall in the office entry area, and I wanted to borrow it. And even though I owned the place, I thought I’d better check with Hank Gonzales, the terminal manager, if he minded if I stripped the wall bare of its only ornamentation. It wasn’t like they used the map, GPS having long ago replaced those giant unwieldy sheets of paper that tore, got folded wrong, and ended up stuffed into glove boxes.
Hank is rarely, if ever, behind his desk. He laughed when I found him out on the warehouse floor amid the bustle and revving engine noise of an extremely busy day and shouted my request. But every day was busy for Hank, including weekends. Freight transport along the I-5 corridor waits for no man.
The difference between my efficiently managed terminal and the trailer repair business I’d just visited was palpable, literally—I could feel the vibration of the forklifts rolling along the concrete floor all the way up into my chest cavity, and I was pleased to see just how many people were working the current shift.
“No problem,” Hank shouted back. “But it’ll be ugly. Who knows how long that map’s been there. Probably out of date. I’ll have to get the wall painted to hide the unfaded spot it’s covering.”
“I’ll call my decorator,” I yelled. “Maybe get you some fake ficus trees too. Spruce up the place.”
But he knew I was joking and waved good-naturedly when he turned away to help a truck driver who had a clipboard stuffed with papers that needed signing.
Back in the worn entry area, I stood on my tiptoes and yanked thumbtacks out of the wall. The map really was huge, probably meant for display in a classroom. I was grateful I didn’t have an audience as I fought through cobwebs to roll the thing up into a tube. My entire body objected to the exertion, but I gritted through it.
Then I hurried down the hall and left a note on Hank’s desk. It wasn’t urgent, but since Hank had been managing the freight terminal for the past year, he’d have more information about what really went on at the trailer repair business than I did. Maybe what I’d seen today was completely normal, although I doubted it.
Loretta dropped Emmie and me off at the mansion with a cheerful wave and a promise to show me the lace shawl she was knitting next time we met up.
oOo
Clarice passed on the news that Gus had called with an encouraging prognosis for Lentil. No bent rims. However, he was going to keep the old girl—his words—for the weekend in order to do a little preventive maintenance. Clarice narrowed her eyes behind her burgundy cat’s eye glasses while she reported, and I knew two things—she didn’t appreciate the fact that my beater pickup was taking priority over her Subaru in Gus’s life and that preventive maintenance was really Gus’s euphemism for a badly needed major overhaul.
I shrugged. “He’s probably still waiting for parts for your station wagon. I’m sorry.”
“Huh. Gonna have to get myself a pickup to get any sort of appreciable attention around here,” Clarice grunted.
“You don’t think his invitation to ride into the wilds on the back of his Harley was attention? Then you are missing every clue out there, and I know you’re more perceptive than that,” I retorted. “Tell me again how many bird species you saw on your date.”
Clarice grumbled something incoherent.
I reached for one of my phones. “Never mind. I’ll just ask Gus. I’m sure he’ll remember. Besides, it’s
CHAPTER 8
Highways and byways. I needed to wrap my head around a bunch of stuff. Which is why I’d added a stop at the freight terminal to my list of errands. Loretta and Emmie waited in the pickup while I ran inside.
There was a huge map of the United States with all the interstate highways marked in red on the wall in the office entry area, and I wanted to borrow it. And even though I owned the place, I thought I’d better check with Hank Gonzales, the terminal manager, if he minded if I stripped the wall bare of its only ornamentation. It wasn’t like they used the map, GPS having long ago replaced those giant unwieldy sheets of paper that tore, got folded wrong, and ended up stuffed into glove boxes.
Hank is rarely, if ever, behind his desk. He laughed when I found him out on the warehouse floor amid the bustle and revving engine noise of an extremely busy day and shouted my request. But every day was busy for Hank, including weekends. Freight transport along the I-5 corridor waits for no man.
The difference between my efficiently managed terminal and the trailer repair business I’d just visited was palpable, literally—I could feel the vibration of the forklifts rolling along the concrete floor all the way up into my chest cavity, and I was pleased to see just how many people were working the current shift.
“No problem,” Hank shouted back. “But it’ll be ugly. Who knows how long that map’s been there. Probably out of date. I’ll have to get the wall painted to hide the unfaded spot it’s covering.”
“I’ll call my decorator,” I yelled. “Maybe get you some fake ficus trees too. Spruce up the place.”
But he knew I was joking and waved good-naturedly when he turned away to help a truck driver who had a clipboard stuffed with papers that needed signing.
Back in the worn entry area, I stood on my tiptoes and yanked thumbtacks out of the wall. The map really was huge, probably meant for display in a classroom. I was grateful I didn’t have an audience as I fought through cobwebs to roll the thing up into a tube. My entire body objected to the exertion, but I gritted through it.
Then I hurried down the hall and left a note on Hank’s desk. It wasn’t urgent, but since Hank had been managing the freight terminal for the past year, he’d have more information about what really went on at the trailer repair business than I did. Maybe what I’d seen today was completely normal, although I doubted it.
Loretta dropped Emmie and me off at the mansion with a cheerful wave and a promise to show me the lace shawl she was knitting next time we met up.
oOo
Clarice passed on the news that Gus had called with an encouraging prognosis for Lentil. No bent rims. However, he was going to keep the old girl—his words—for the weekend in order to do a little preventive maintenance. Clarice narrowed her eyes behind her burgundy cat’s eye glasses while she reported, and I knew two things—she didn’t appreciate the fact that my beater pickup was taking priority over her Subaru in Gus’s life and that preventive maintenance was really Gus’s euphemism for a badly needed major overhaul.
I shrugged. “He’s probably still waiting for parts for your station wagon. I’m sorry.”
“Huh. Gonna have to get myself a pickup to get any sort of appreciable attention around here,” Clarice grunted.
“You don’t think his invitation to ride into the wilds on the back of his Harley was attention? Then you are missing every clue out there, and I know you’re more perceptive than that,” I retorted. “Tell me again how many bird species you saw on your date.”
Clarice grumbled something incoherent.
I reached for one of my phones. “Never mind. I’ll just ask Gus. I’m sure he’ll remember. Besides, it’s
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