Shelby

Edited, Illustrated and Written

by Cynthia Queen

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Copyright 2012 Cynthia Queen

Smashwords Edition

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DEDICATION:

Shelby is dedicated to my family.

Through the years you have put up with this pencil chewing, self-educating, time consuming process of developing my novels. Especially to my mother who not only inspired and supported me to reach my childhood dream of becoming a writer, but also helped me raise my daughters to adulthood. Somehow we remained sane through the process and now I give you SHELBY. Thank You my Family.

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Shelby is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The story of Shelby, however, is based on the geographic location of the author’s hometown of Lawrenceville, Pennsylvania. All characters are fictional and carefully portrayed to resemble no one from the local area. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The Baker’s family garage is referenced to a structure that is now buried beneath a local eatery. The Baker’s home is based on the author’s personal dream home designs. Historical details of the area were researched and true to the best of the author’s knowledge, and based on the personal memory of the author.

Sneak Preview:

Hey! Shelby exclaimed, The lock is busted! Stop! Pushing up with his feet the slender youth braced himself against the trunk hood. His older sister, Hailey, pressed harder. Sis! he complained.

Okay, Shelby, I won’t shut you in, Hailey let go of the trunk hood. It is tempting. What are you ripping out of this stenchmobile?

This briefcase, Shelby stated, stumbling out of the twisted trunk. Fussing with the briefcase’s latches he informed, This is the car which hit the cow and landed in the swamp. The crusher is coming tomorrow. Unable to open the case he handed it to his sister, Here, toss it in the fire. If someone wanted this stuff, they would have gotten it by now.

Examining the case Hailey ran her fingers over it, It looks expensive. Give me your pick. I’ll open it.

Taking the slim piece of metal Hailey inserted it into the lock. She stated, When they catch them boys for chasing Ed’s herd with the four-wheelers, there is going to be hob to pay. However, Officer Mike is stumped. A flight attendant and the car rental described someone different than the city slicker driving the car.

You’re losing your touch, Sis, Shelby observed.

Placing her cap backwards, Hailey defended, There’s three locks on this thing. I already picked two. With a wiggle and a twist of her wrist she stated, And there is number three, Smarty.

Shelby’s eyes widened, H-o-l-l-e-e Cow!

Unmindful of the wet grass, Hailey sat; stunned. She gasped, Oh, my God, Shelby. You nearly burned this! Oh, my God. Look at all this money!

Shelby fell beside his sister. We’re rich! he declared.

No, Shelby, Hailey countered. That cow has landed us up to our eyeballs in trouble. I feel it in my backbone. This looks as crooked as Ozzie’s tail.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1: Holy Cow

CHAPTER 2: A Vow of Silence

CHAPTER 3: John Manory

CHAPTER 4: A Double Vow of Silence

CHAPTER 5: Shelby…Zero/ Mouse…Lost Count

CHAPTER 6: The Critical Link

CHAPTER 7: Classic Barbeque

CHAPTER 8: Taken For A Ride

CHAPTER 9: Sweetheart’s Legacy

CHAPTER 10: Believe It or Not

CHAPTER 11: A Tad Bit Jealous

CHAPTER 12: Hailey’s Tires

CHAPTER 13: One For the Wall

CHAPTER 14: A Train Ride to Remember

CHAPTER 15: English Retreat

CHAPTER 16: The Truth Revealed

CHAPTER 17: Shelby Behind the Wheel

CHAPTER 18: Hand Over the Briefcase

CHAPTER 19: Welcome Home

CHAPTER 20: Mystery Solved

CHAPTER 1: Holy Cow

In two separate locations of Los Angeles, California, similar scenarios were occurring. In the first scenario a tall, well-groomed, buxom blonde paced until her cousin stepped into the pricey hotel room. Expensive diamonds dangled from her ears and sparkled in her gold wrist watch. She took a long drag off her cigarette. Did you find the weasel? she demanded.

The thin man of average height and features ran his fingers nervously through his spiked hair. He shook his head, No and worse; his pad is cleaned out. I went to a couple of furniture rental places the landlord mentioned. Our buddy used an alias, Ron Elwood. Clayton double-crossed us.

Sarcastic, the blonde sneered, That obvious?

The cousins were nervous by nature as their crimes gave them no rest. Harry questioned, What are we going to do, Lexana? Rodgers will get suspicious.

Flicking the ashes off her cigarette, the shrewd blonde stated, No, he won’t. I have him under control. Lexana commenced to pacing the floor. Her tall stiletto heels scuffed the thick mauve carpet. It’s Clayton who can screw us up. We need to stay calm.

Calm? the well-dressed man in his mid-thirties fell into a cushioned chair. He was two years older than his pacing cousin. He revealed, Clayton heisted another mil, aside from our take. Four nerve wracking years wasted! Clayton left a gap any novice accountant can find.

The woman’s green eyes narrowed. Hissing under her breath Lexana plotted, That conniving double-crossing rat! Look, he’s the one missing. Rodgers won’t suspect us. We’ll show Rodgers that nice big gap ourselves. In a glass ash tray she crushed her smoldering cigarette.

Not liking the idea, Harry’s brow knit; Won’t the accountants dig deeper?

Agitated by the deceit of her x-partner in crime, Lexana scowled, We’ve been burying this for a long time. Clayton has only been with us for a year. Once we find Clayton, we’ll give Rodgers the money we show missing. It will throw him off. We’ll come out of this with at least a mil a piece. We’ll retire in another year from the company, as planned. It won’t be the six million, but, we’ll have something to show for our efforts.

Rising to pour himself a drink Harry sighed, I hope you’re right, Lexana. First, how are we going to find Clayton?

Staring out the window Lexana tapped her dimpled cheek and lifted her narrow chin, Let’s go straight to Rodgers. He won’t want this to become public knowledge. We’ll ask him to give us time to search for Clayton before he has to bring the law in and the investors. With Rodgers vast resources we’ll find our rat.

Swallowing his drink in one gulp, Harry grit against the sting of the strong liquor, This is a big risk.

Determined to have her way, Lexana became firm, Look, Cuz, we’ve been taking a big risk for four years. I’m not letting Clayton walk off with everything we worked hard to get.

Meeting his cousin’s eye Harry nodded, Alright, how?

Lexana sketched her plot, I’ll be in my office. You bring Rodgers by and I’ll call you over to show him our discovery. He’ll be thanking us.

Harry’s lip curled, I have to leave it to you. You’ve been slick right up until you brought Clayton on board.

Disgust wrinkling her perfect nose, Lexana tossed her head, He brought himself on board by uncovering our plans. He dodged being killed twice. This time I’ll kill him myself.

Studying his voluptuous cousin Harry knew she meant it.

Lexana instructed, I’ll leave first. You take the stairs and head straight for the office. Rodgers has me running errands. I’ll be back before lunch. Rustle up the sheets. Wet down the soap and towels to make it look like you stayed the night. Lexana picked up her purse and departed.

The second scenario was occurring in another part of L.A. A slender man of good muscle-tone in his mid-forties lounged beside a pool inside a masonry mansion. A beautiful woman of model proportions flipped her long wave of brown hair behind her. She messaged the handsome man’s shoulders. A cell phone rang. In a thick Italian voice laced by a New York accent he requested, Baby, can you get me a Martini, just the way you make it? Take a few minutes to powder your gorgeous little nose.

Understanding the conversation was not for her ears; the young woman left. The man hissed into the phone, Louie, did you find the double-crosser?

A deep voice of heavy New York accent answered, Not yet, Boss. We checked his place. He cleaned it slick as a whistle. We dug through the garbage and found some bank receipts listing an airline purchase. There’s a different name, a Clayton Moore. We’re checking it out.

Running his fingers through his thick black hair, the man encouraged, You boys are good. When you find my thirty mill in jewels, there’s going to be a big bonus. Bring me Elwood on ice and I’ll double it.

Warming to the generosity, the deep voice on the other end announced, Boss, we’d do this job for free. No one crosses you and gets away with it.

A generous grin spread across the man’s lips, Louie, you do my heart proud. You’re like family.

Pledging loyalty Louie declared, We’ll follow this Elwood, alias whoever, to the ends of the Earth. You got my word.

Watching the lanky young woman open the French door with drink in hand, the handsome man said into the phone, I know I do, and I’m going to keep you to it. As long as you live, this guy is your piece of meat. You’ll be rewarded or my name isn’t Marco Petzuchini. Keep me posted. I won’t sleep until this is settled!

I will, Boss, Louie vowed.

Meanwhile, in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, a chunky bearded man of nervous nature stepped up to the counter of an airport terminal. He tipped his derby to a young woman behind the counter. In a smooth polite voice barely revealing a Turkish accent, he inquired, My plane was late. It seems a little boy thought his sister’s tampon was a bomb. They grounded the flight until the dogs went through. Please tell me my next flight hasn’t departed.

Consoling, the young dark-eyed woman explained, I know this is upsetting, sir. We have to keep our schedule. The plane left half-an-hour ago.

The man bit his chubby knuckles. He loosened the tie of his expensive suit, When is the next flight?

Our next flight to Boston will be in six hours, but, it’s booked. There’s another flight at eight in the morning. Would you like it? The scar above the middle-aged man’s left eyebrow caught the woman’s attention.

Distressed, the man beseeched her, Isn’t there another airport closer? My mother is sick. I have to get to Boston. The doctors say she doesn’t have much time.

Observing the man’s highly agitated state the teller opted, If you don’t mind driving, Elmira, New York has a flight leaving in five hours. You could rent a car or take a taxi. It’s a straight shot up Route 15 north. I can book your flight from here.

Relieved, the man nodded, Yes, I’ll rent a car. Who do I see?

Trying to appease the customer the teller smiled, Let me get your information. Under the circumstance, I can get you a discount.

Wiping his forehead the chunky man stated, Thanks, Miss, I appreciate the effort.

Glad she could help the customer in his moment of distress, the woman smiled, You’re welcome, Mr. Elwood. Have a safe drive.

From a nearby bathroom Elwood reappeared; his derby missing. Gone was the scar above his eye. The color of his eyes changed from blue to brown. A red tie added color to his suit. At the rental Halmenies Bitterman rented a gold Cadillac.

Feeling more at ease Clayton Moore, Ron Elwood, Halmenies Bitterman, currently of Turkey, according to his passport, breathed a sigh of relief. The comfortable leather of the Cadillac eased his tension. It was a rich feel for a man who was filthy rich.

Ten miles into the journey the man of many disguises rolled down the driver window. He reached into a black duffle bag. Out the car window he threw his mustache and beard. The fat paunch everyone in L.A. had known met the same fate miles further along.

If asked, anyone from the Williamsport airport would describe Elwood or Clayton. As a precaution, on the last plane to Turkey, the seat of Ron Elwood would be empty; once he made it to Boston to catch that flight. If his enemies were on the flight, he would be ten seats behind wrapped in silk Turkish robes and a long white beard; sleeping. The luxury ahead was worth the caution. Beaches, women, cruises; it was all his.

The con-artist gloated. Locked in a briefcase, under the spare tire of the rental, was a million dollars in cold cash. In the lining of the specially designed case was thirty million in precious gems. In various bank accounts, in various countries, were several more million. It was the perfect double-cross. It was his, if he escaped the country before Petzuchini’s thugs found him. Once he landed in Turkey, there would be no tracing him. He had friends who would take care of any who followed. Keeping a low profile, he could live like a king.

Diligent, the con-artist maintained the car’s speed at the proper limit. So close to freedom, the last thing he needed, was a cop.

The drive through the Pennsylvania mountain range was beautiful. The fall leaves showed traces of color. Turning the radio up the con-artist chuckled with the pleasure of his obvious success. From his wallet, he withdrew the last traces of Ron Elwood- and many other names. Out the window they fluttered. If the fake ID’s were found, the true owners were dead. The obituaries were the best part of a newspaper.

An hour passed. Night was falling. A sunset spread across the sky. It reflected off the rolling mountains, lighting the fall leaves and the lake waters to his left. The highway emptied onto Route 287. A restaurant caught his attention. Suddenly he was famished and there was plenty of time to get to the airport.

Inside the con-artist found the restaurant pleasant. Only a glance came his way. At the moment, he was a deeply tanned American in an expensive suit. His cap and bright clothes he left in the Cadillac. People tended to remember brightly colored clothes. He wanted to blend in. The atmosphere was a down-home country bar. He ordered steak and scallops.

A group of farm boys ambled in. They were big men dressed in over-alls. Americans were generally bigger and taller than the people of his native country. After his experience in picking them clean, they were also made gullible by their customary generosity. He sneered at them the way a wolf sneers at fat sheep.

Personally, he hated farming, no matter what the country. He hated everything about it. Having come from a dirt farm, he especially hated cows. With this thought, he rose and was soon driving through the night.

To his left, the con-artist saw lights bouncing in a field. It took him a moment to realize the lights were a pair of four-wheelers. Taking his attention from them, he looked to the road... too late. Something black-and-white crossed the road. Another black object stopped in the vehicle’s path. Reflecting in the headlights, the con-artist saw a white heart shape between two glowing blue eyes.

The brakes screeched.

Holy COW! screamed Mr. Bitterman, alias whomever.

Tires squealed, then, there was a crash.

CHAPTER 2: A Vow of Silence

Mother, called Hailey, passing through the French doors leading from the breeze way into the pool room. A pool table sat inviting; its balls tucked in a triangle. It was how her father left the table. Two lights hung from the cathedral ceiling in just the right location for the perfect game. Pool was her father’s second passion in life.

Hailey back stepped on to the breezeway and removed her shoes. For a moment, she paused to watch a ruby-throated humming bird flit over a basket of purple petunias. Beyond the screened window Hailey admired the rolling mountain view of the New York and Pennsylvania borderline. The invisible border cut into the chain and split off the local hotel and general store from the town of Lawrenceville. Ironically, it was illegal to carry beer a hundred feet across the border. On the other hand, until Hailey turned twenty-one last year, it was safe to pop a cold one on the store’s front steps after a hard day’s work. Officer Mike had frowned many a time while she and her younger brother held up a beer from the New York side.

Lawrenceville stretched across the narrow valley below. How she had missed the view while at college. The hills of Williamsport were not the same. The air was crisper and the altitude higher. There was no place like home.

The breezeway had been designed by her mother and built largely by her father. It was a twenty-eight foot covered bridge connecting the two story garage with the second story of the house. It sported three large arched openings on both sides. Window boxes overflowed with fragrant flowers. Three skylights allowed the sunlight to pour in. Chain-link lights hung from the ceiling rafters. A cushioned swing faced the mountains. Several wicker pieces made a comfortable arrangement for outdoor living. Beneath the breeze way, another unenclosed sitting area was decorated with white wicker furniture.

Below her feet, Hailey heard a pump. The sound of water splattering intrigued her to peek over the banister. An arching fountain rippled over a pond deep enough to house several large goldfish. Hailey bombed the multicolored fish with pellets. They swam like lengthy sharks to the surface.

Hailey entered the house, squishing the mauve runner carpet between her toes. At a large display of Breyer horses, she paused to admire the lifetime collection. There were horses of various colors and breeds. With care her mother had arranged them so each resin statue was in its own spotlight.

The Bella Australian cypress floor greeted Hailey’s feet. The kitchen was in the center of the house. An island sported a glass stove top. The floor was caramel marble tiling with a hint of mauve. Hailey’s mother had poetically described it. The cabinetry was done in an oatmeal finish with casual handles and Pecan Mosaic Formica counter tops. Hailey remembered this because she was told if she damaged the new house in any way, especially the kitchen, she would be living in the garage. Her mother, Helen Baker, was an artist. She took as much pride in her home’s decor as she did in the home’s energy conservation systems.

A filtered water system from the gutters of the house sent water spraying into the swimming pool. The downstairs’ concrete slab floor was warmed by a geothermal heating system. A series of ceiling fans guided air throughout the house.

On the roof of the house, a series of black pipes preheated the well water before it went into the storage tanks. Under the kitchen and bathroom cabinets were instant water heaters. Mr. Baker had won putting in two unused air conditioning units.

During her childhood, Hailey watched her mother pour over magazines and chew on pencils until her master piece was finished. No ant was going to chew into the walls of Helen Baker’s masterpiece. The walls were made of concrete poured between foam panels. The outside of the house was covered by stone sliced with a diamond saw by the hands of Helen Baker. The second story was covered by plaster with thin boards running vertically and diagonally. It was a model perfect cottage. When Mrs. Baker held her art showings, guests were given a tour.

To Hailey it was more than home. It was an extension of her mother’s unique personality. She opened the refrigerator and withdrew a pitcher of ice water. From the base freezer she withdrew an orange creamcicle.

Carrying a glass of water in one hand, and the creamcicle in the other, Hailey walked through the dining room. A crystal chandelier hung over a cherry dinning table, nearby stood a matching hutch and buffet. A large bay window offered a view of the woodlands behind the house.

Exiting this room Hailey entered the library to find her father sitting in his oxford recliner reading the newspaper. She inquired, Hey, Dad, where is Mom hiding?

A slender man of fifty looked over the top of his paper. Proudly he greeted, Hey, it’s my late rising doctor! Mom is downstairs. Do me a favor, when you can? Go up to the yard and locate Shelby. I sent him to help the guys crush a load of cars. I want this stuff crushed, too. Here’s the list.

Eyeing her father Hailey inquired, Are you sure it was wise, Dad?

He’s eighteen and graduated, grinned her father. I can’t believe how fast you two grew. It makes me feel old.

Hailey studied her father’s finely shaped face. His jaw was a bit wide. A light shined mischievously from his brown eyes. Lacking a college education he had put his hands to use. They were magic in the body and paint shop. Barnabus Baker was a simple, old fashioned man. He instilled the same humble qualities in his children. At fifty he was beginning to lose his graying hair, especially on top.

No problem, replied Hailey. Turning, she passed through the den, which sported a wall-to-wall entertainment center and a three-piece sectional. A two hundred-and-fifty gallon salt water tank made not a whisper. This was her mother’s hobby. An aquarist, she had forty-nine salt-water fish living in happy harmony. She spent hours watching and caring for them. For three weeks this burden would be Hailey’s; once she and Shelby announced their gift at their parent’s upcoming twenty-fifth wedding anniversary surprise party. A three week cruise to the Caribbean’s her mother had dreamt of for decades.

A row of windows opened to a gorgeous view of the valley. Plants surrounded the window in elaborate pots her mother had made while at art school. A large pot of blue mosaic colors was Hailey’s favorite. Across the hall from the window was the breakfast bar looking into the kitchen. The bar was the family’s place to plan out the day.

Past the bar, Hailey rounded the corner to admire the sculptures and family photos as if seeing them for the first time. It had been three long years of college. To allow her parents to go on this vacation, she had taken the fall semester off. It felt good to be home.

The greeting room sported a glass wicker table and cane chairs in a nook suspended over the downstairs foyer. A black pellet stove nestled in a corner. It was another unused insistence of her father’s. The insulated concrete walls of the home held in the heat so well the windows were opened when her father took mind to light the stove. Above the red oak staircase, a large chandelier hung from the ceiling with Victorian grace.

Descending the stairs, Hailey bit the creamcicle. Turning left, she faced the archway leading to the laundry room. To the left was Shelby’s room. Kitty corner was her room. Even though she had an apartment above the old garage, her mother insisted the room be kept for her. Her parents’ room and their offices were to the right.

Hailey opened the door. Mother? she called.

There was no answer. She entered. To the right, her father’s office stood with the French doors open. His plane models hung from the ceiling. His gun display stood against the left wall. The bedroom was done in a rich Victorian style. A pair of French doors across the room led to a greenhouse. Her mother tended the garden to keep her spirit flowing freely so she might paint and create with a mind at peace with itself. There was a collection of gloxinia and orchids surrounding a black Jacuzzi. Spider plants, snake plants and palm leaves were dominant. A life-sized statue of a young woman poured water from a cement jug into the Jacuzzi.

Hailey called again. She received no answer. The room smelled of soap and hot shower. Guessing her mother was in her private office, she stepped through the bat wing doors of the closet. Giving the shoe rack a push, it slid forward under her hand.

On an ivory settee rested her mother in a white silk robe. Her long red hair was wet. For forty-eight, she looked thirty. Hailey smiled, picturing her mother a queen in her castle. A castle she had designed and stamped with artistic flare in every nook and cranny. Yet, she had been careful to allow each person to have a space to call their own. Half-grinning Hailey knew those spaces were tucked out of sight, incase they clashed with her mother’s design.

This room was so much her mother it breathed her spirit. Behind the settee was a wall of mirrors and Greek pillars. Each pillar sported a twist of vine and green grapes. Sheer material draped each of the three pillars, like the long flowing cloth of a roman emperor cast aristocratically over the shoulder. Behind the settee, faintly etched lilies permanently bloomed in frosted elegance on floor-length mirrors. The walls were smooth white stone. The furniture, pictures and whatnots created the feel of color.

An easel sported a large canvas painting of a young girl playing piano in a crushed red velvet dress. Black velvet bows decorated her lengthy blond curls. Under the piano bench, a silky cocker spaniel laid with its paws over its ears.

Hailey finished her creamcicle. She disposed of the evidence in the trash basket beside her mother’s desk. She’s beautiful, Mom. I’ll never be as good as you.

Smiling, Helen greeted her daughter. There was pride in her eyes as she consoled, "You weren’t meant to, my dear. Your gift is in your father’s genes. You make a car