Free The Old Gray Wolf by James D. Doss Page A

doubt.” She got a good grip on the titanium cylinder. “If you do not tell me why you have put the rubber thingamabob in the Mason jar, I shall feel compelled to whack you with my stick.”
    â€œWhack if you wish, madam.” A smirking pause. “But before you resort to unseemly violence, I suggest that you take a closer look at the rubber cap.” He offered her the jar.
    As she squinted through the thick, curved glass, the woman’s lips closed tightly, then pursed to say, “Oh my.”
    Cushing nodded. “You have no doubt noticed that a coin-shaped metallic device has been pressed inside the rubber cap.”
    â€œI have noticed.” She looked up at her employee. “Is that what I think it is?”
    Cushing nodded. “Without the least shadow of an inkling of a doubt.”
    â€œBut … who could have put it into my cane?”
    â€œI can think of only three possibilities.” The butler, who was somewhat of a literalist, cleared his throat. “Firstly, yourself.” Without smiling, he added, “Which conjecture seems sufficiently unlikely as to demand immediate dismissal.”
    â€œThank you, Cushing.” Her lips curled in a wry smile. “Please proceed.”
    â€œSecondly, myself.”
    â€œI will keep that prospect in mind. Then am I to conclude that Marcella—”
    â€œIt does seem quite likely, madam—especially in light of certain ancillary evidence which supports such a hypothesis.”
    â€œPlease explain.”
    The butler tilted his bald head to indicate the south side of the towering house. “A moment before I entered the premises, I observed your maid entering the detached garage. A moment later, Marcella departed in her hideous little German motor vehicle. She turned north on the paved road, and seemed to be in rather a hurry. Unless you have just dispatched the woman on some urgent errand.…” He let the accusation hang in the air.
    â€œI see.” The purse snatcher’s momma sighed. “Too bad. I was rather fond of her.”
    â€œIf you like, madam—I will be pleased to take the Rolls and deal with this distressing matter— personally .” He patted his concealed jacket pocket.
    The dead-mobster’s wife shook her head and replied firmly, “Thank you, Cushing, but no.” Francine Hooten knew just what to do.
    Her butler did, too. “Yes, madam.” After making a slight bow, her discreet employee withdrew to prepare a steaming pot of extrastrong English breakfast tea and a silver tray of dainty biscuits.

 
    CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    THE DISCONNECT
    Miss Louella Smithson, who pulled into the ma-and-pa filling station to avoid being spotted by the assassin about a quarter mile up the two-lane highway from the picnic grounds, is precisely where we left her. But not for long.
    *   *   *
    Having counted to ten, Miss Smithson pulled onto the road again—and stared in stunned disbelief at the ramrod-straight section of blacktop stretching for miles ahead of her. The two-lane was as empty as a grinning politician’s election-day promise. She gave the thirsty Bronco a tasty gulp of gasoline, then slowed to cast a hopeful glance at a deserted farmhouse. Except for an antique tractor rusting away in the front yard, there was no sign of a vehicle. “Damn—I’ve lost him!” Major bummer. I should’ve counted to five.
    The dejected gumshoe had two options. I can give up the chase and slink home to Kansas City like a wimp-sissy amateur who doesn’t have an ounce of confidence in herself. Or … I can go with my hunch and drive all the way to Granite Creek, Colorado. If I spot Cowboy’s car there, I’ll ID the bastard before he murders the cops and then spit in his face when they put the cuffs on him. Or (and this scenario was preferable), Maybe they’ll just shoot him down like the mangy, egg-sucking dog he