Bait & Switch (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 1) Read Online Free
Author: Jerusha Jones
forward and rested my head on the airbag cover.
I couldn’t even think. Where my ideas should be — the rush of problems and solutions that ought to be matching up with each other — was dark, a deep void. Nothing. Nothing.
I jolted upright at a knuckle rapping on my window. The wavy shadow of a person appeared through the rain-rippled glass. I pressed the button to lower the window a few inches.
“Mrs. Sheldon?” Water dripped off the tip of his nose.
How was it that lately strange men knew my name?
“Someone named Clarice called and said I should be out looking for you.”
“God bless that woman,” I muttered.
“I don’t think He’d approve of the language she uses.”
I grinned. “Probably not.”
“If you’ll turn around and follow me, I’ll show you up to the main house.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal. And thanks.”
He hunkered back into the collar of his jacket and stumped through the puddles to his truck.
I stuck close to his taillights. He pulled off the road into an indentation in the shrubbery, a spot just wide enough for his truck between two trees. He sat idling for a minute then his pickup lurched forward, and I saw what we’d been waiting for — a motorized gate, nearly overgrown with ivy. The rain had parted gaps in the leaves, revealing glimpses of a cast iron structure underneath. No keypad, so it must have a motion sensor. The only way I’d have ever found it was by whacking the bushes with a stick along this stretch of empty county road. Good grief.
Clarice’s reason for the Chevy Tahoe became apparent the first time my head hit the roof even though I still had my seatbelt buckled. There was a horrible, grating crunch as an axle dug a trough through what felt like a sandbar littered with fist-sized rocks. I punched the 4-Lo button, and the engine ground lower, into a deep slogging sound. I was going to have nice purple bruises across my hips and left shoulder in the morning.
Fortunately, my chaperon seemed to think a leisurely pace was a good idea. I followed his lead, gunning and braking over a track that would surely qualify for those crazy off-road motorcycle races on ESPN — the ones I skip over on my way to more interesting shows. I should have been paying attention.
Then the truck in front of me went vertical, and I got a really good look at his rusty tailgate. The pickup bucked, flung mud onto my windshield from its rear wheels, then roared up and over what I now realized was the side of a gully — a gully I was still in. Oh boy.
I sucked a deep breath, clenched my teeth and punched the accelerator. My stomach flipped a few loops when terra firma disappeared from view. That’s when I scrunched my eyes closed, forgot to keep my jaw closed, bit my tongue, and landed upright, bouncing hard on the Tahoe’s shocks but clear of the gully.
After that it was just big rocks and crater-sized potholes — in other words, clear sailing. And the clouds decided to open up in earnest, proving the earlier downpour just a warm-up session. The windshield wipers were useless.
The pickup’s taillights doubled bright as the driver hit the brakes. I did the same. A minute later, my door was wrenched open.
“Not likely to let up,” he huffed. “Leave what you don’t need for later. Ready?”
I grabbed my purse and slid off the seat. My sandals were no match for the tangled, sopping, calf-high grass. I stumbled after my rescuer, trying to yank the windbreaker hood up at the same time.
He pulled open a wood door, its peeling paint curling up in long strips. We tumbled into a dingy, echoing room with scuffed linoleum tiles in alternating turquoise and beige.
He pulled his hat off and slapped it against his leg, releasing an arc of water droplets. “You can shelter here for now. I brought you some dinner.” He jerked a thumb toward a massive table in the center of the room, on which sat a plate covered with aluminum foil. “I’ll be back later to help unload and show
I couldn’t even think. Where my ideas should be — the rush of problems and solutions that ought to be matching up with each other — was dark, a deep void. Nothing. Nothing.
I jolted upright at a knuckle rapping on my window. The wavy shadow of a person appeared through the rain-rippled glass. I pressed the button to lower the window a few inches.
“Mrs. Sheldon?” Water dripped off the tip of his nose.
How was it that lately strange men knew my name?
“Someone named Clarice called and said I should be out looking for you.”
“God bless that woman,” I muttered.
“I don’t think He’d approve of the language she uses.”
I grinned. “Probably not.”
“If you’ll turn around and follow me, I’ll show you up to the main house.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal. And thanks.”
He hunkered back into the collar of his jacket and stumped through the puddles to his truck.
I stuck close to his taillights. He pulled off the road into an indentation in the shrubbery, a spot just wide enough for his truck between two trees. He sat idling for a minute then his pickup lurched forward, and I saw what we’d been waiting for — a motorized gate, nearly overgrown with ivy. The rain had parted gaps in the leaves, revealing glimpses of a cast iron structure underneath. No keypad, so it must have a motion sensor. The only way I’d have ever found it was by whacking the bushes with a stick along this stretch of empty county road. Good grief.
Clarice’s reason for the Chevy Tahoe became apparent the first time my head hit the roof even though I still had my seatbelt buckled. There was a horrible, grating crunch as an axle dug a trough through what felt like a sandbar littered with fist-sized rocks. I punched the 4-Lo button, and the engine ground lower, into a deep slogging sound. I was going to have nice purple bruises across my hips and left shoulder in the morning.
Fortunately, my chaperon seemed to think a leisurely pace was a good idea. I followed his lead, gunning and braking over a track that would surely qualify for those crazy off-road motorcycle races on ESPN — the ones I skip over on my way to more interesting shows. I should have been paying attention.
Then the truck in front of me went vertical, and I got a really good look at his rusty tailgate. The pickup bucked, flung mud onto my windshield from its rear wheels, then roared up and over what I now realized was the side of a gully — a gully I was still in. Oh boy.
I sucked a deep breath, clenched my teeth and punched the accelerator. My stomach flipped a few loops when terra firma disappeared from view. That’s when I scrunched my eyes closed, forgot to keep my jaw closed, bit my tongue, and landed upright, bouncing hard on the Tahoe’s shocks but clear of the gully.
After that it was just big rocks and crater-sized potholes — in other words, clear sailing. And the clouds decided to open up in earnest, proving the earlier downpour just a warm-up session. The windshield wipers were useless.
The pickup’s taillights doubled bright as the driver hit the brakes. I did the same. A minute later, my door was wrenched open.
“Not likely to let up,” he huffed. “Leave what you don’t need for later. Ready?”
I grabbed my purse and slid off the seat. My sandals were no match for the tangled, sopping, calf-high grass. I stumbled after my rescuer, trying to yank the windbreaker hood up at the same time.
He pulled open a wood door, its peeling paint curling up in long strips. We tumbled into a dingy, echoing room with scuffed linoleum tiles in alternating turquoise and beige.
He pulled his hat off and slapped it against his leg, releasing an arc of water droplets. “You can shelter here for now. I brought you some dinner.” He jerked a thumb toward a massive table in the center of the room, on which sat a plate covered with aluminum foil. “I’ll be back later to help unload and show
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