On the Run
What people are saying about
In Plain Sight
,
book 2 of the Ivy Malone Mysteries
“Ivy Malone is destined to become a classic sleuth, right up there with Jessica Fletcher and Miss Marple.”
Patricia H. Rushford
, author,
the Angel Delaney Mysteries
“
In Plain Sight
portrays a lovable, sassy LOL who solves murder mysteries and breezes down banisters. Lorena McCourtney provides plucky-paced entertainment full of heart and laugh-out-loud wit.”
Janet Chester Bly
, author,
Hope Lives Here
“I’m hooked on Ivy Malone.
In Plain Sight
is like my favorite mocha milkshake—sweet, dark, rich, and refreshing! I love how Ivy slips around nasty-people radar and ends up solving the case once again. Go, Ivy, go!”
Lyn Cote
, author, The Women of Ivy Manor series
“Ivy Malone is such a realistic character she could be your next door neighbor. Wonderfully written.”
Lois Gladys Leppard
, author, the Mandie books
“This is one to read and savor!”
“McCourtney’s writing goes down like an icy lemonade on a hot summer day. It’s smooth, finished, and delightfully unpredictable.
In Plain Sight
is the perfect summer read.”
The Northwest Book Reviewer
“I am a devoted mystery reader and, in particular, a devoted fan of Ivy Malone. This self-proclaimed LOL (Little Old Lady) will bring you LOL (Lots of Laughs)!”
Lauren Winner
, author,
Girl Meets God
Other books by Lorena McCourtney
The Ivy Malone Mysteries
Invisible
(winner of the 2005 Daphne du Maurier Award for Inspirational Romantic Mystery/Suspense)
In Plain Sight
The Julesburg Mysteries
Whirlpool
Riptide
Undertow
Watch for the next Ivy Malone mystery coming soon!
On the Run
Lorena McCourtney
© 2006 by Lorena McCourtney
Published by Fleming H. Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McCourtney, Lorena.
On the run / Lorena McCourtney.
p. cm. — (An Ivy Malone mystery ; bk. 3)
ISBN 0-8007-5956-7 (pbk.)
1. Women detectives—Fiction. 2. Organized crime—Fiction. 3. Older women—Fiction. 4. Oklahoma—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3563.C3449O5 2006
813’.54—dc22 2005016515
CONTENTS
I will say of the L
ORD
, “He is my
refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust.”
Psalm 91:2
The pickup had been tailing me for at least the last thirty miles. I slowed. It slowed. I speeded up. It speeded up. We were as synchronized as the wiper blades swishing back and forth on my windshield.
Not good.
In the same jittery brain wave, I scoffed at my reaction. No reason to think this was a malevolent Braxton honing in on me like a heat-seeking missile programmed to the temperature of a little old lady in polyester slacks. Probably just a cautious driver who didn’t want to take chances passing on a curvy, rain-slicked highway.
“No need to get all sweaty handed and jelly kneed, right?”
Koop, who never gets sweaty handed or jelly kneed, opened his one good eye and regarded me with mild interest. Koop is a stubby-tailed, one-eyed Manx with orange fur and a laid-back disposition. Except for an aversion to cigarette smokers, in whose presence he turns into Psycho Cat. We’d adopted each other at a rest area in Georgia.
Now he surprised me by suddenly jerking alert. He hopped down from his usual spot on the passenger’s seat and prowled the length of the motor home, even jumping up on the sofa and peering out the window, stub of tail twitching. Do cats get vibes, like my old friend Magnolia from back home claims she does? Maybe hostile vibes from that pickup back there behind us?
I peered into the motor home’s oversized mirror, trying to get a better look at the vehicle. It was a light-colored pickup, not new, not ancient, nothing threatening about it. But wasn’t that exactly the generic vehicle the Braxtons would choose if they were closing in on me? I couldn’t tell if the driver was man or woman, or even how many people were in the pickup. Neither could I make out the license plate.
“Okay, we’ll give them an invitation to pass, one they can’t refuse,” I told Koop.
Ahead was a straight, tree-lined stretch of highway with a nice dotted line down the center. No other vehicles were in sight. I slowed to a crawl. An arthritic centipede could have passed us. But the pickup didn’t. It stayed behind, maintaining what was beginning to look like a calculated distance.
My hands turned sweaty on the steering wheel. What did the driver have in mind? Forcing the motor home into a fatal crash on a hill or curve? Picking just the right spot for putting a bullet through a tire or window?
Oh, c’mon. Wasn’t that a bit melodramatic? How could the Braxtons have found me? I hadn’t stayed more than a few days in any one place in the last couple of months. I’d contacted my niece DeeAnn and my friend Magnolia only by prepaid phone card. I never told anyone where I was heading next.
I glanced at Koop again. Next thing I’d be suspecting he was wired for espionage, sending cat-o-grams to the Braxtons with a high-tech tracking system implanted behind that scruffy orange ear.
No matter how I tried to pooh-pooh my way out of my fears, however, the hard fact was that the Braxtons were out to get me. I’d been instrumental in convicting one of the brothers for murder. Drake Braxton, the leader of the clan, had vowed to turn me into roadkill. They’d already tried to burn my house back in Missouri, with me in it. When I hid out at my niece’s place in Arkansas, they’d tracked me down and planted dynamite in my old Thunderbird. Which was when I’d decided that hitting the road would be a prudent plan, both for my safety and the safety of my niece and her family. Surely, I’d thought, they couldn’t find me if I kept on the move. A rolling motor home gathers no Braxtons.
And I’d rolled steadily during the last couple of months. From Arkansas to Florida, up the eastern coast, now back inland to this wooded valley somewhere in Tennessee. I’d met wonderful people. I’d met strange people. I’d visited an eclectic variety of churches. I’d been encouraged by the love of the Lord I’d found in most of them. I’d been discouraged by internal squabbles in others. In some congregations I’d been no more visible than an organ note hanging in the air; in others I’d been welcomed like a wonderful new friend. From other travelers I’d accumulated invitations to visit people all over the country. Never had I encountered anyone I even remotely suspected of stalking me.
Which didn’t mean the Braxtons
weren’t
stalking me. And had found me. Because, at the moment, this isolated road seemed an ideal spot to commit exactly what they’d threatened: roadkill.
What now, Lord?
An immediate answer. A sign! No, not a lightning bolt from heaven. A road sign. Stanley, Population 42.
“Hang on, Koop,” I muttered. Just beyond the sign I whipped the motor home hard to the right. At which time I was reminded that motor homes, even smaller ones like my twenty-one-footer, do not take kindly to abrupt changes of direction. It tilted like a vehicular Leaning Tower of Pisa and wobbled for a precarious moment before settling back on solid ground.
My attention was elsewhere. I held my breath as I peered out the window. Would the pickup slither in behind me? Two guys with machine guns get out and close in on me? No. Without even slowing down, the pickup zoomed right on by.
Oh, happy day! I let out my breath and wiped my sweaty hands on Koop’s fur when he jumped into my lap.
Okay, I’d imagined hostile intentions where none existed. Making the proverbial mountain out of a molehill. Or perhaps, in these days of computer speak, making a gigabyte out of a kilobyte would be more appropriate. But isn’t it better to be on guard than sneaked up on?
Now I had time to inspect Stanley, Tennessee, which appeared to consist of a lone gas-and-grocery and a few shabby houses on the far side of a field. Muddy water puddled the potholes around the gas pumps, a wet flag drooped overhead, and a gray mule peered over a nearby wooden fence. Posters advertising chewing tobacco, Campbell’s soups, and, incongruously, a cruise to the Bahamas covered most of the windows on the weather-beaten building. A man in old black work pants, khaki jacket, and a faded red cap ambled out the door.
Given the price of gas and my limited finances, I’d intended to wait until I reached a discount station before gassing up, but the place looked as if it could use some business. I eased the motor home up to the pumps. The man peered up at me through heavy bifocals. Tufts of gray hair stuck out from under the cap that read “Voorhee’s Heavy Equipment—We’ll Dig for You!” I slid the window open.
“Fill ’er up?”
I was pleasantly surprised that I didn’t have to do the fillup myself. “Yes, please. Regular. I’ll have to unlock the gas cap.” I slipped on a jacket and opened the door. The rain had let up, and the air smelled fresh and woodsy, with just a hint of wet mule. I unlocked the gas cap, and he stuck the nozzle in. The gas gurgled. The motor home guzzles gas like Koop gleefully downing his favorite treat, a half can of tuna.
“Nice rain,” I offered conversationally. I hadn’t talked to anyone except Koop for two days. He’s sweet but not a big conversationalist.
The man nodded.
“Planning a cruise to the Bahamas?” I motioned toward the poster.
He gave me a “what planet are you from?” look, and I felt properly chastised for my frivolousness. When the tank was full, he surprised me by climbing up to clean my bug-speckled windshield, an action I appreciated more than small talk anyway. I told him I’d go inside to pay.