Read Cash & Carry (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 4) for Free Online Page B

to meet you.”
    My comment earned a tilted brow and a grunt from Dwayne. “What’s your preference?” He pulled open one of the doors of the massive, also gleaming stainless steel-clad refrigerator and studied the nearly bare wire racks inside. “Apple juice or apple juice? I’ll get coffee started in a minute.”
    “Nothing, thanks. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Kind of a close call for you last night. Thanks for looking for the boys. You know this property better than anyone.”
    He let the fridge door swing closed with a vacuum-sealed smack and turned to face me. “I could never live with myself if something happened to those young’uns.” Then he grinned again. “Never thought I’d say that in my lifetime, either.”
    “Family responsibility looks good on you,” I replied.
    But Dwayne grew serious and stabbed at buttons on the coffee maker. “No it doesn’t, Nora. I’m not cut out for taking care of anybody but myself. And you see how good of a job I’ve done of that.” He raised his arms like a scarecrow.
    I had no idea how old he was. Eighties? Nineties? He was still spry and mentally sharp, suffering only—at least upon visual inspection—from a lack of preventive health care during his long hermit life.
    “Wait right here,” Dwayne added. “I’ve been thinking.” And he took the stairs up to the second story full of new bedrooms two at a time.
    I used the opportunity to peek in the cupboards. Dwayne had the basics, and I suspected Walt had provided them. Dwayne had been acting as construction foreman and night watchman throughout this remodeling project, living on site, and I’d noticed a change in his bearing as a result of it—confidence and increased sociability, but it seemed that he’d been engaged in some introspection as well.
    I set a couple clean mugs beside the coffee maker and found the sugar.
    Dwayne clattered back down the stairs. He dumped a grungy rucksack on the counter beside the mugs. “This is for you. It has limited usefulness—you’ll need to ask Tarq about that—but it might come in handy. For you, for the boys. I want you to have it, Nora. You can store it with your pile of cash in the meantime.”
    I blinked at Dwayne. His words surprised me so much that at first I didn’t have any thoughts. My mind was a gaping hole. Then questions rammed into each other at the rate of nuclear fusion, and I still stood there with my mouth open.
    “No offense,” Dwayne said, “but you sure do attract attention of the federal variety. I’m not holding it against you. But I gotta disappear again. I’ll be close, though—don’t worry. Morel season will really ramp up in a month or so.” He pulled the carafe out of the coffee maker and filled our mugs.
    I was still having the question collision problem.
    “Maybe that Laotian family in your basement would like to learn how to harvest mushrooms. Immigrants make the best pickers. They don’t mind the conditions. Hard workers. I’ll put them in contact with the buyers around here.” Dwayne tinkled a spoon against the sides of his mug as he dissolved about a quarter cup of sugar in the hot liquid.
    I fingered the frayed cord that looped around the opening to his rucksack.
    “That’s right,” Dwayne said. “It’s yours. You want sugar too?”
    I shook my head, loosening my tongue in the process. “Let’s start with the mushrooms.”
    “Close to thirty species grow in these woods throughout the year. Prized by those hoity-toity city restaurants. Charge an arm and a leg for them. I have the patches all mapped out.” He tapped his temple. “Not above sharing the information with those in need.”
    “You can earn a living doing that?” My voice cracked, and I gulped coffee to steady it.
    Dwayne shrugged. “It’s what I’ve been doing, besides the other—”
    He meant producing bootleg whiskey.
    “Is it illegal?” I asked. Although I was certainly not in a position to cast the first stone.
    Another