Blown To Pieces (PTO Murder Club Mystery Book 2) (19 page)

Max relaxed. I hated that he would see this as anything but a fun opportunity, but he’d been hit with a pretty big dose of reality when his father left. He’d grown up way too much this year.

“I thought this might be a fun little staycation for us all.” I sounded way more cheerful than I felt. “All of our clothes are packed and already there. We’re going to have some serious fun.”

At least, I hoped our clothes were already there.

“That’s right. I can’t wait to try out that waterslide. I call first turn.” Monica raised her hand.

“I call second,” Max and Landon said at the same time.

They rock-paper-scissored it out. Landon would be second.

I drove over to Daman’s house and pulled right up to the huge, double front doors. The door opened, and a stooped older woman with her graying black hair scraped back into a bun at the nape of her neck stepped out. She had on a severe, black, tea-length dress with a white lace collar. She looked like a cross between an aging telenovela star and Judge Judy.

“I am Magdalena. I’m Mr. Rodriguez’s housekeeper.” She smiled and offered the boys each a hand to hold, which they both took. “You boys can call me Maggie.” She scowled over her shoulder at me and Monica. “You can call me Mrs. Gonzalez.”

Um...okay.

So Magdalena liked children but not adults. I couldn’t blame her. I liked more children than I did adults.

“Sorry, Max.” I touched him on the shoulder. “I’ve got to go check on something at the house, but I’ll be right back. Monica’s going to watch y’all in the pool.”

“Dinner’s on the table at six thirty sharp every night. Don’t be late.” Magdalena didn’t even turn around.

“Okay.” What was it with Daman’s housekeeper? She’d been on vacation in Mexico when I’d brought Max over to swim before. Too bad she’d come back home.

Monica gave me a quick hug and whispered, “Good luck,” next to my ear.

“Thanks,” I whispered back, and then in my normal voice, I said, “Y’all have fun.”

I turned around to find Bautista leaning against Portia’s right front fender.

I walked over to him. “Did you have any trouble getting the gold together?”

“No, I just took it out of the safe.” He nodded toward a black gym bag at his feet. “I split the difference and loaded up twenty-seven pounds of gold.”

Who had twenty-seven pounds of gold just sitting around? Daman’s world was so different from mine.

Bautista leaned over and picked up the bag and put it on the backseat. “I’ll be watching you the whole time. Just drive up, unload the bag, and get out of there. It’s just a dead drop. Easy peasy.”

That was easy peasy for him to say. He’d probably done this a million times. I was still on my first day of being blackmailed. There was definitely a learning curve.

“Okay, I don’t want to know how you’re watching me; just please figure out who’s doing this.” I climbed behind the wheel. It was still early, but I wanted to make sure I wasn’t late this time.

I drove to the Chili Parlor in what seemed like slo-mo. The world was still moving at a normal pace, but I felt like I was dragging the weight of an uncertain future around with me.

I pulled into the Chili Parlor parking lot and parked in the same place as earlier today.

I got out, opened the back driver’s-side door, and double-fisted the gym bag. Twenty-seven pounds of gold weighed more than twenty-seven pounds, or so it seemed. Gold banged against gold, but it didn’t sound like or feel like gold coins. The bag’s zipper got caught on my sweater. I unzipped the bag, and the whole world exploded in blue. Dye packs of Blue Man Group blue paint covered me from head to toe.

I dropped the bag and wiped paint out of my eyes, nose, and mouth. It had gotten everywhere. I was pretty sure Mike Tyson wasn’t going to be happy.

After I could see again, I looked around for Bautista. I couldn’t find him anywhere.

My cell phone rang, and I pulled it out of my back pocket. I had to wipe my hands on my pants before my body heat would register on the screen so I could answer the call.

“Why did you open the bag?” Bautista didn’t sound happy.

“The zipper got caught on my sweater. I unzipped it to unsnag it.” I tried to keep from yelling. “Why didn’t you tell me not to open the bag?”

I would show Bautista what mad looked like.

“I thought it was self-explanatory.” He sounded like he was trying to keep from laughing.

“There is nothing about a dead drop or extortion that is self-explanatory.” I picked up the bag again, and the seam in the bottom busted. Twenty-seven gold bars fell out. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“I think it’s safe to say that we’re blown.” There was lots of laughter in the background.

I was back to hating him. I would make sure that Monica only wore mom swimsuits around him.

I couldn’t get back in my car, because I’d get paint everywhere. “Can someone come pick me up?”

“None of the guys wants to get paint in their cars.” Bautista laughed. “Little Joe has a truck, but he doesn’t want to get paint in the bed.”

“I hate every single one of you.” And the only person I’d met was Bautista. They thought this was very funny.

“Don’t be mad.” It was a guy with an Australian accent. “You look like a blueberry.”

No one seemed to care that I was screwed. I couldn’t pay off Mike Tyson, and I looked like a blueberry.

How was I going to explain this to Max? What exactly was Mike Tyson going to do to me? How was I going to wash this crap off?

“I think we have a way to get you home.” Bautista was all smartass and sass.

I had a feeling that I didn’t want to know. “How?”

“We’re going to roll you up in a tarp and put you in the bed of Little Joe’s truck.” Bautista was completely serious.

“Will that work?” It didn’t sound pleasant.

“It has in the past,” Bautista said as a loud car engine groaned to life. “Be there in a minute.”

So they’d rolled people up in a tarp and hauled them somewhere in the back of a truck. Had those people been alive or dead when they’d taken the ride? On second thought, I didn’t want to know.

Ten minutes later, I was rolled burrito style into a blue tarp and loaded into the bed of Little Joe’s truck. As I bumped down Highway 620 and then onto Lohmans Crossing Road and then to Lakeside Boulevard, I could barely get enough air to inflate my lungs, which came in handy because the tarp smelled like old sponge. My hair was matted with blue paint, it was currently drying in my cleavage and my eyelashes, and every time I blew my nose, it looked like Blueberry Pop-Tart filling.

This might be the lowest point of my life.

Then again, tomorrow Mike Tyson was probably going to do something really bad to me.

In the immortal words of Scarlett O’Hara, “After all...tomorrow is another day.”

God, I hoped it was better than today.

An hour later, I had some of the blue off. My hair had taken the brunt of the damage. Splotches of dark nickel gray covered large areas of my once dark brunette hair. My skin looked like I’d gotten a gray/blue spray tan, and I couldn’t seem to get the blue out of my eyebrows.

Bautista and his guys had carried me in through a back door and dropped me off in a huge, tiled shower on the ground floor. A thick, white, terrycloth robe and red tankini had been waiting for me.

Now here I was about to walk out and tell Max...what?

I opened the glass-and-chrome door that led to the indoor pool. Though I’d been to Daman’s house several times, it still amazed me. The indoor pool was the size of a resort pool. It had a waterslide that started at the fifth floor and curved its way down to the ground level. Five stories of rooms surrounded the pool, courtyard style, and lush tropical plants made this room feel like it was outside.

I slid the robe off, hung it on the back of a chair, placed my phone in the seat of the chair, and waded into one of the three hot tubs. Though I’d just taken a pretty hot shower, the warm water felt so good.

Monica barreled down the waterslide, followed by Landon and then Max. Monica swam to the side, climbed out, and came to join me in the hot tub.

She studied me as she walked down the steps into the steaming water. “At first I thought you were just sitting in shadow, but now I see that your forearms and face really are gray. What happened?”

“The gold was in a bag filled with dye packs.” I didn’t figure I needed to elaborate more.

Max swam to the side of the pool, put on his glasses, and waved to me. He climbed out and padded over to the hot tub.

He analyzed me. His eyebrows shot up. “Do I want to know?”

“Probably not.” I’d already lied to him about why we were staying here. I wanted to tell him the truth about the dye packs, but it wasn’t fair to put the burden of my mistakes on him.

“Okay.” He shrugged and went back to the pool. Before getting in, he took off his glasses and placed them carefully on a towel.

I wished he could be carefree like other kids, but he knew how expensive those glasses were and that we couldn’t afford to buy him another pair if those were ruined.

My phone rang, and I jumped. I hopped out of the hot tub to answer it.

I checked the number. It was Mike Tyson. This was the call I’d been dreading.

“Hello.” It wasn’t like I could let it go to voicemail. I needed to know what the dye packs were going to cost me.

“Did you get all of that blue paint washed off?” Mike Tyson’s voice was as high and creepy as ever. Couldn’t he have chosen some other voice to spoof? Maybe mix it up a bit. I was sure he really didn’t want my input.

“Most of it. I’m told the rest will wash off eventually.” I wished that he’d just get to the point. All of this weirdly polite small talk was even creepier than Mike Tyson’s voice.

“You should have taken my advice, honey.” He was chastising.

Honey? He’d never called me “honey” before.

“What advice was that?” I rarely took advice, especially my own. And if you really want me to do the opposite of what’s advised, start the sentence out with, “If you know what’s good for you...” That really brings out my contrary nature.

“To leave Daman’s lapdog at home. And now you’ve moved in with him?”

How the hell did Mike Tyson know this?

“I had no choice.” I wanted to yell and scream and tell him that my move was on him, but he was probably a killer, and making him even madder wasn’t a good idea. Plus, he probably didn’t care.

Mike Tyson’s voice was even. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll listen this time.”

And there it was.

“Now it’s going to cost you Daman’s gold and Molly’s gold.” Mike Tyson sounded bored. “No dye packs. This time, come alone. You have until noon tomorrow. In case someone else is listening to this call, I want you to drop the gold off outside of where you found out about the Lakeside African Relief Fund. Now you gotta pay for not following instructions.”

“What are you going to do?” My heart dropped into my stomach and bounced around.

“I ain’t gonna do nothing. You did this. I only have one question—”

“Please don’t hurt—”

“Young or old?” Mike Tyson’s tone was playful.

“What?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Young or old? You decide. You got ten seconds.” Mike Tyson hummed the
Jeopardy
theme. After ten seconds he made a buzzer sound. “Then both. Okay. I can do—”

“Old.” All the blood rushed from my head, and I sat down hard in the closest chair.

“Old it is. Say goodbye, Edna.” There was some rustling, and then a different voice came on the line. It was female and sounded like Jackie Kennedy meets the Ozark Mountains. “Goodbye.”

A single gunshot rang out, and then there was a thud, like a body hitting the floor.

“Oh my God!” I dropped my phone. I heard the crunch of the screen cracking, but all my brain was able to register was that Molly Miars’s mother had just been murdered.

I picked up the phone and put it to my ear, but the line was dead.

Monica must have seen my face, because she was out of the hot tub and at my side before I’d gotten the words together to ask her for help.

“What happened?” Monica had grabbed my robe and was wrapping it around my shoulders.

“I think I just got Edna Miars killed,” I whispered. Something was different about this phone call. Not just Edna, but something else. The voice was the same…I couldn’t put my finger on what was different.

I’d chosen old. So who was young? My gaze went to Max, and I actually felt sick to my stomach. What had I done?

“What’s wrong?” Max stared at me. “You look grayer than before.”

“Nothing, I’m just not feeling well. I think I ate something that didn’t agree with me.” No idea where that had come from. I hadn’t eaten much today.

My phone buzzed with a new text. I slid my finger over the broken glass and pulled it up. The message read, “Motivation to follow instructions.”

There was a picture attached, but I couldn’t make out the thumbnail. I touched the picture and pulled it up.

My heart dropped to my knees, and if I hadn’t already been sitting, I’d have melted to the floor. Haley was duct-taped to a chair. Her blonde hair was matted, mascara ran down her cheeks, and her mouth was duct-taped shut.

This wasn’t real...It couldn’t be real.

I slipped the phone to Monica, and I turned my I’m-fine smile on Max. “Why don’t you go down the waterslide again? I’ll be right behind you.

Monica’s brown eyes turned saucer size.

My phone rang.

I answered it.

“Aren’t you glad you didn’t say ‘young’?” Mike Tyson was mocking me, and I didn’t care.

“I want to talk to Haley.” I wasn’t a newbie—I watched TV, and I knew I needed proof of life. God—proof of life for my best friend. This couldn’t be real.

Duct tape ripped.

“Go Bobcats! The owner of Liberace’s desk wants it back.” Haley’s speech was slurred, like she was either drunk or drugged. “He wants the gold...give it to him. No police or he’ll kill me.” She sing-songed. “I think he just killed Edna.” Her voice was cheerleader perky. “I’m kind of sad.” She sounded like a kid on Christmas morning.