Free Grab & Go (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 2) by Jerusha Jones Page B

criminal activity into an acceptable endeavor. I gulped at what Walt would think of my ethical gymnastics.
    In trying to fix Skip’s wrongs, I was becoming too much like him. I was counting on Josh to give me some answers, to clear the path I was supposed to take, even though I knew my conscience was no one’s burden but my own.
    Hours passed in dreary monochrome grayness slashed with red taillight streaks and road spray. Just north of Canby, I slammed into a wall of precipitation.
    The car in front of me spun with no warning. After two full rotations, a back tire hung up on the rumble strip, and the car shot into the ditch nose first. I was past the scene before I knew it, foot off the gas but still coasting too fast. The ditches on both sides of the three-lane freeway were littered with vehicles. Those still on the pavement slowed to a crawl, brake lights lit up like Christmas.
    The Volvo’s radio antenna wobbled lopsidedly in the wind, coated with ice to three times its normal diameter. The wiper blades were icing up, sloughing cracked sheets of freezing rain off the glass. I turned the defroster to full blast and cranked the dial to its hottest setting.
    A fire truck puttered by on the northbound center shoulder, lights flashing. Soon it was followed by an ambulance and another fire truck. I concentrated on not rear-ending the car in front of me. Following distance was suddenly of paramount importance. And no sudden movements — just letting the clunky old Volvo roll, keeping the steering wheel loose. The last thing I needed to do for the Gonzales family was wreck their car.
    Southbound, the exits were numbered in descending order. I became fixated on the big green reflective signs announcing the upcoming towns and counting down to my destination. An Oregon map I’d found in the glove box lay open on the seat beside me. At ten miles per hour, I might not make it to the restaurant before Josh.
    Then the small towns funneled into Salem, the capital, and the traffic speed increased. I hoped the other drivers knew what they were doing and went with the flow in the slow lane.
    Exit 253. I eased onto the off-ramp, turned left on Highway 22 and stuck to that main route until I saw the sign for Shari’s. The hexagonal building sat in the close corner of a huge WinCo parking lot. Just like that — the easiest thing all day. I was grateful for Josh’s selection, and the banner strung over several of the restaurant’s windows, flapping in the cross breeze, announced fresh cream pies — banana, coconut, chocolate. My kind of place.
    I backed into a space on the west edge of the lot so I had a wide-open view through the rain-streaked windshield. Josh didn’t know what kind of car I was driving. I tipped the seat back a bit, hunkered down, and grabbed the first composition book my hand landed on. A little light reading while I waited.
     
    oOo
     
    I ended up knitting on hat number fourteen while waiting for Josh. I just couldn’t concentrate on poetry and short fiction while contemplating how much of the truth I might want to share with a former FBI agent. Given his situation, maybe Josh and I had conscience struggles in common.
    The black Accord arrived precisely at 10:00 a.m. and angled into a spot all alone on the south side of the lot. A tall, slim, dark-haired man in jeans and windbreaker climbed out of the driver’s seat and strode directly into the restaurant. He didn’t look around; he didn’t swerve for puddles. Hands in his jacket pockets, head down, as though he was completely focused on his own thoughts.
    I exhaled and wound the loose yarn around the skein, reminding myself that Josh had requested this meeting. It didn’t make sense for my stomach to be jittery, but trying to apply logic to your internal organs is an effort in futility.
    I creaked my stiff joints out of the Volvo and followed in Josh’s wake, slogging across the parking lot.
    There were only a few patrons relaxing over coffee and breakfast