Read Online Hide & Find (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 3) by Jerusha Jones - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jerusha Jones
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thought my husband had rented a safe deposit box at this particular branch.
He scowled but turned on his heel. “Come through.” He whipped a card passkey on a stretchy lanyard from his pocket — the epitome of financial geekiness — and swiped it through the reader on a heavy metal door.
He stood in the doorway while holding it open, forcing me to squeeze past him into a cramped room. One wall was lined with little hatches, the numbered doors double-keyed.
Mr. Sykes unlocked and pulled out a drawer, like an old-fashioned library catalog system. “Name?”
“Nora Ingram-Sheldon. Box 127.”
He flipped through cards, paused, backtracked, partially lifted a card out and narrowed his hard brown eyes at me. “That’s not what it says here.”
“We’re recently married. My husband rented it before the wedding. Perhaps it’s still under my maiden name? His full name is Sanford Paul Sheldon.” I omitted the part about his friends always calling him Skip. Bank managers are notoriously unappreciative of non-legal nicknames.
Mr. Sykes left the card cocked at an angle and held out a sweaty hand. “ID.”
I dug in my tote bag and proffered my driver’s license with a flourish.
He matched my ID to the card, then slid an admission ticket onto the table between us. “Sign please.”
I tried to relax, let the pen flow, but not have the result so sloppy that it wouldn’t match. I left a healthy space between my maiden and married surnames. Clearly, Mr. Sykes was a diehard rule-abider.
When I’d finished, he lined up all three documents and analyzed them one more time. Even upside down, I could tell the signature on the original registration card was mine — on a piece of paper I’d never seen before in my life. I’d been right about the registered name being only Nora Ingram.
Skip must have copied it onto the rental agreement at some point. It would have been easy enough to do — my signature was all over the place on foundation paperwork. So I could add forgery to his list of crimes. But why?
Mr. Sykes skirted around the table and stuck a different key — a real key this time — into one of the locks for box 127. He presented his palm, and I dropped my key into it. Then he repeated the process.
When the little door was open, he withdrew his own key and backed out of the room. “Take your time,” he said, sounding almost conciliatory now that I’d passed all the tests.
I waited until the door closed solidly behind him then slid the inordinately long but shallow box out of the slot and rested it on the table. I struggled for a deep breath. What a bizarrely anticlimactic moment of truth in this stuffy room.
Which got even worse when I pried open the lid to find only one item in the box — another flash drive. I know we live in a digital age, but little black plastic doohickeys aren’t that exciting, at least not to look at. Whoop-tee-do. Frankly, naked cubist women were better surprises.
I shoved the flash drive in my pocket and tipped up the box just to confirm it really was empty. Then I replaced the box and clicked the little door closed.
I didn’t know what I’d been expecting, but this surely wasn’t it. I guess I’d hoped for a sheaf of pages — a transcribed confession. Or maybe the address of a safe house where I could find Skip. Plane tickets to Brazil. Keys to a turbo-charged getaway car. Apparently, my imagination was far more resourceful than reality.
I’d grasp at any information that felt productive or at least offered some resolution. Instead I got a gadget that I’d have to wait to decipher. The last flash drive, the one from the pouch Selma had guarded, hadn’t offered anything I didn’t already know.
Waiting — over and over and over again. It was driving me crazy.
I glanced at my paper trail lying on the table then quickly checked the corners of the ceiling. No cameras.
Of course not. Safe deposit boxes were supposed to be private. Not even the bank employees knew
He scowled but turned on his heel. “Come through.” He whipped a card passkey on a stretchy lanyard from his pocket — the epitome of financial geekiness — and swiped it through the reader on a heavy metal door.
He stood in the doorway while holding it open, forcing me to squeeze past him into a cramped room. One wall was lined with little hatches, the numbered doors double-keyed.
Mr. Sykes unlocked and pulled out a drawer, like an old-fashioned library catalog system. “Name?”
“Nora Ingram-Sheldon. Box 127.”
He flipped through cards, paused, backtracked, partially lifted a card out and narrowed his hard brown eyes at me. “That’s not what it says here.”
“We’re recently married. My husband rented it before the wedding. Perhaps it’s still under my maiden name? His full name is Sanford Paul Sheldon.” I omitted the part about his friends always calling him Skip. Bank managers are notoriously unappreciative of non-legal nicknames.
Mr. Sykes left the card cocked at an angle and held out a sweaty hand. “ID.”
I dug in my tote bag and proffered my driver’s license with a flourish.
He matched my ID to the card, then slid an admission ticket onto the table between us. “Sign please.”
I tried to relax, let the pen flow, but not have the result so sloppy that it wouldn’t match. I left a healthy space between my maiden and married surnames. Clearly, Mr. Sykes was a diehard rule-abider.
When I’d finished, he lined up all three documents and analyzed them one more time. Even upside down, I could tell the signature on the original registration card was mine — on a piece of paper I’d never seen before in my life. I’d been right about the registered name being only Nora Ingram.
Skip must have copied it onto the rental agreement at some point. It would have been easy enough to do — my signature was all over the place on foundation paperwork. So I could add forgery to his list of crimes. But why?
Mr. Sykes skirted around the table and stuck a different key — a real key this time — into one of the locks for box 127. He presented his palm, and I dropped my key into it. Then he repeated the process.
When the little door was open, he withdrew his own key and backed out of the room. “Take your time,” he said, sounding almost conciliatory now that I’d passed all the tests.
I waited until the door closed solidly behind him then slid the inordinately long but shallow box out of the slot and rested it on the table. I struggled for a deep breath. What a bizarrely anticlimactic moment of truth in this stuffy room.
Which got even worse when I pried open the lid to find only one item in the box — another flash drive. I know we live in a digital age, but little black plastic doohickeys aren’t that exciting, at least not to look at. Whoop-tee-do. Frankly, naked cubist women were better surprises.
I shoved the flash drive in my pocket and tipped up the box just to confirm it really was empty. Then I replaced the box and clicked the little door closed.
I didn’t know what I’d been expecting, but this surely wasn’t it. I guess I’d hoped for a sheaf of pages — a transcribed confession. Or maybe the address of a safe house where I could find Skip. Plane tickets to Brazil. Keys to a turbo-charged getaway car. Apparently, my imagination was far more resourceful than reality.
I’d grasp at any information that felt productive or at least offered some resolution. Instead I got a gadget that I’d have to wait to decipher. The last flash drive, the one from the pouch Selma had guarded, hadn’t offered anything I didn’t already know.
Waiting — over and over and over again. It was driving me crazy.
I glanced at my paper trail lying on the table then quickly checked the corners of the ceiling. No cameras.
Of course not. Safe deposit boxes were supposed to be private. Not even the bank employees knew
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