Grab & Go (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 2) Read Online Free PDF

the voice messages on it and tell me what you think about those too?”
    Clarice rolled her eyes, but she disappeared, letting in a blast of cold air in her wake.
    I turned off the water, toweled dry and bundled into Skip’s terrycloth robe. I’d returned from Mexico sans-husband, but I did get to keep his luggage. Some consolation. We’d packed for a couple weeks of Cozumel sunshine, not a chilly, wet winter in the Pacific Northwest, so I’d added a few of his layers to my own. His scent — a combination of bay rum aftershave and shoe polish — wafted up from the plush fabric.
    I found Clarice in the kitchen, paging through her overstuffed, but more valuable than gold, Day-Timer. “Not here,” she muttered. “The woman calling herself Susanna White. Neither the name nor the phone number are in my list.”
    I slumped into a chair across from her. “So I’ll have to meet with her then.”
    “And Josh Freeney.” Clarice pitched an eyebrow at me. “You realize you’re lucky he called back?”
    I nodded. “Maybe I can get some answers about what, exactly, Skip was doing.”
    “And you need to do it like your hair’s on fire,” Clarice added, “because of what happened to Hank today.”
    I stared at Clarice for a long moment, then sighed and reached for my purse. “I know, but I was hoping you’d come to a different conclusion. Maybe we could argue about it.”
    “No way, girl. This has Skip’s fingerprints all over it, no matter what our local sheriff thinks.”
    I rummaged through my purse and made a tidy row of prepaid cell phones on the table. I was keeping a list of which one I used for which contact. Now, I had to more names to add.
     
    oOo
     
    Early the next morning, armed with a thermos of coffee and as many layers of clothing as I could pull on and still function without waddling like the Michelin man, I borrowed Clarice’s station wagon yet again and hit the road. I wanted to get out of sight before CeCe woke up. I hadn’t figured out how to explain to the little girl what happened to her daddy. The tires hummed a patchy tune on the slippery pavement, and I was grateful for the Subaru company’s commitment to four-wheel traction.
    Before I’d gone to bed I’d left return messages for both Josh and Susanna. None of us seemed eager to actually answer our phones.
    I’d also updated my email correspondence with a charity in Mumbai — one of the many Skip’s foundation had supported — that is, until I had emptied his accounts. But I’d spread the wealth around, and orphanages and health initiatives worldwide were currently rolling in dough. The money came from Skip’s carwash franchise business and from the other, much bigger, business he’d had on the side — laundering money for a whole string of unsavory characters. This act of generosity made me very happy, in theory. Skip’s clients, not so much. And therein lay the rub — the source of my current troubles.
    The Good Hope Home for Boys and Girls — I love how they name orphanages in other countries, or at least how the names translate into English — was one of my favorites. One hundred and seventy-three children between the ages of four and twelve, with a school, library, playground, and soccer and cricket fields on site, clean dormitories and as much food as they could eat. The young woman who runs the orphanage, Garima Kaur Gulati, is from a large Sikh family and has relatives (who in India doesn’t?) in the finance sector. She was making a few connections for me as well as caring for those adorable children.
    And then I’d spent the rest of the night staring at the dark ceiling. It actually felt good to climb out of bed at first light and embark on a mission.
    The hospital parking lot was nearly empty — the few cars probably belonged to the staff on duty since it was far too early for visiting hours. One vehicle, however, did stand out — Des’s official Jeep with the May County logo on the door and spiffy light bar on