The J D Bragg Mystery Series Box Set

by Ron Fisher

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss Raines. I’m not giving up until you talk to me.”

  “I’m hanging up now,” she said, and did.

  I called her back, but she didn’t answer. Another call produced the same results, but this time I left a message, telling her again what a bad guy Beal was, and why talking to me was the right thing to do. I needed to find a way to talk to her face to face. She sounded like she was emotionally stressed to the breaking point; perhaps she’d open up if we spoke in person.

  I went from the Transylvania Inn into Pickens and I stopped at the diner where I bumped into Kelly Mayfield. I took a booth by the window, and ordered a BLT and a cup of coffee. I was surprised to be hungry again so soon after Eloise’s huge breakfast. I was almost finished with my sandwich when I looked up and saw Carl Hood sitting at the counter, staring at me. There was an unnerving solemnity to his expression, as if he were thinking so deep about something that he wasn’t really looking at me, but through me. He seemed to refocus suddenly and we locked eyes for a moment. He gave me a slow and discreet nod of recognition, before turning back to his food. Had he followed me here? I paid up and left.

  Melissa Raines’ small house was on the east side of Pickens on a street lined with other small houses, all strikingly similar: faded white clapboard siding, same shape and size, and small porches in front. The houses sat exactly the same distance from the street, and a view from the side was like sighting down one long wall. They had to be old company houses remodeled, built originally for workers from the textile mill that used to be nearby. Her place looked deserted—the blinds were drawn, there was no car in the driveway, and no one came to the door when I knocked.

  I walked to the house next door, thinking a neighbor might know where she was, but no one answered my knock there either. The house on the opposite side had a for rent sign in the yard.

  The road quickly became winding and narrow as I left Melissa Raines’ house, and I suddenly realized this wasn’t the way I came in. Lost in thought, I’d turned the wrong way out of her drive.

  I found a place to turn around and as I was reversing, I came face to face with a white Dodge Ram pickup as it barreled around the curve. With a yelp of tires and a violent swerve, it barely missed hitting me. I caught a glimpse of a man in a billed cap behind the wheel as the truck flew by without so much as a wave or a honk of the horn. His cap was pulled down low so I couldn’t see his face. By the width of his shoulders I could tell he was a big guy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  As I started back to Still Hollow, I had a wild idea and pulled over to the side of the road. I saw the Friday tee times for the Masters tournament in the morning paper, and I couldn’t get Barry Beal off my mind. If I left right now, I could be in Augusta about the time Beal finished his round. I wanted to ask him how he couldn’t at least suspect that there was something a little too convenient about the death of Cecil Hood and the quick sale of his property. Or, was Beal involved in it himself?

  Also, I wanted to tell him that I knew who his assault victim was, and had talked to her. I wanted him to know that even if he’d paid for her silence and thought he’d gotten away with it; I wouldn’t stop until she opened up. If that did nothing more than cause him to worry, I would consider it a small victory.

  My press pass got me into the locker room at the Augusta National Golf Club, site of the most famous golf tournament in the world, The Masters. I’m glad I went, as a check of the scoreboard showed Barry Beal had finished too far back to make the Friday cut, so he wouldn’t be around on Saturday.

  I spotted Beal sitting on a bench changing his shoes and cut a direct path toward him. He saw me coming and abruptly stood up. Even from across the room, I could see his face take on the color of a fresh-boiled lobster.

  Beal was shaking his head from side to side as I neared.

  “I’m not talking to you,” he said. No interviews.”

  “You need to answer some questions, Barry. And I won’t leave you alone until you do.”

  “Will someone call security?” he said, raising his voice as he looked toward the room behind me.

  “What about Melissa Raines, the woman you assaulted?” I asked. “Can you comment on her? She was your employee, wasn’t she? Or was she more than that?”

  That stopped him for a moment.

  “That’s right, I know who she is. I’ve talked to her. Even if you’ve paid her to keep her mouth shut, I’ll eventually get her to open up.”

  He began stuffing articles of clothing and things from his locker into a travel bag.

  “Here’s another question for you,” I said. “It’s about an old farmer named Cecil Hood. He owned property vital to your development. Property he pledged to you, but then changed his mind and refused to sell. Then he suffered a fatal accident and the property drops right into your lap. Most people would have been a little suspicious about the convenience. One of them was my grandfather, and I think it got him killed. You seem to be the only one around who didn’t find these deaths suspicious. My question is, why not?”

  Beal’s pulse was leaping like a cricket inside a vein in his forehead. He glared at me for a moment, then tossed a last item in his travel bag and closed it as if he were trying to rip the zipper off.

  There was activity behind me and I turned to see two serious guys in matching blazers and club ties coming my way. Security had been called. Beal saw them too, and leaned in so close to me that I could smell his aftershave.

  “Listen to me, you fucking worm,” he said, his voice little more than a guttural whisper. “I don’t give a goddamn about some old farmer or your grandfather. And I don’t give a goddamn about you. You’ll never work again, anyway. I’ll make sure of that.”

  We stood for a moment staring into each other’s eyes. His were shockingly void of compassion or regret, and as cold and detached from anything human as a reptile. I knew then that any expectations I had of ever getting to him were futile. This man may not be a murderer, but he was inherently evil. And if justice ever found him, it wouldn’t be because of anything I could do. I turned and walked away, one step ahead of the security guys.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The funeral began at two on Saturday, and by the size of the crowd at Holly Springs Baptist Church, half the county must have turned out. The church was standing room only, with many more people waiting outside to attend the graveside service that would follow.

  The eulogy was delivered by the pastor of Holly Springs and was praising to the point of fiction—at least in my mind. I felt as though he was speaking about a total stranger as he talked of my grandfather’s boundless warmth and caring nature. Mackenzie and Eloise obviously disagreed with me, emitting a number of snuffles at various salient points.

  SportsWord sent a wreath with a card signed by Joe Dennis, Burt Lowe, and a couple of others, but none of them came to the funeral. I didn’t expect them to. Several friends and drinking buddies sent cards or called. I talked them out of coming, telling them to go to some dive bar and have a drink or two in my name. My ex-girlfriend, Rosita, neither called nor sent a card. I wondered if she even knew about the funeral—or cared.

  From the church, the procession moved to the gravesite across the road, the crowd forming a semi-circle around the tent erected for the family. Since there was only the three of us that could claim that title, friends of my grandfather and Eloise joined us under the tent. We sat in folding metal chairs and stared somberly at the flower-laden casket before us, a row of slender gray monuments just beyond, all bearing the Bragg name. My mother, father, great-grandparents and great-uncles, all there under the bright blue Carolina sky. Time and tragedy denied me the chance to really know most of those whose blood flowed through my veins. Now another Bragg was taking his place beside them, and I wondered if I knew him any better.

  In the sea of faces that circled the gravesite, Kelly Mayfield stood staring at the casket, clutching a lacy white handkerchief, which she used to occasionally d
ab at her eyes. She caught me watching her. She held my gaze for a moment and then turned back to the service. When it ended I lost sight of her in the crowd. I collected Eloise and Mackenzie and we began to make our exit, moving slowly through the lingering throng of people who continued to issue their sentiments and regrets for our loss.

  Bucky Streeter was waiting by the side of the gray limousine the funeral home provided for us. The sight of him made me smile for the first time that day. I thought with some irony that this was the first time we’d ever seen each other in coats and ties.

  “I didn’t realize you were here,” I said, shaking his outstretched hand.

  “I couldn’t get into the church. Some turnout.”

  My eyes followed his to the sea of automobiles all trying to leave at once, the cars parked along either side of the road jockeying for a slot in the traffic streaming from the church lot.

  From inside the car, Eloise tapped lightly on the window, waved at Bucky, and motioned for me to get going.

  “Why don’t you come to the house? A small group of Eloise’s friends are coming over.”

  “Now?” he asked.

  “Yeah. We’re having the wake like they do in Australia—after the funeral. Eloise doesn’t know it, but I picked up a bottle of Scotch when I was in town the other day. I need somebody to help me drink it.”

  “Why didn’t you say that first?” he said, and held the door of the limo open for me.

  Eloise sat huddled in the corner, staring out the window. Mackenzie’s head was on her shoulder, her eyes closed.

  “How are you doing?” I asked my sister.

  She turned to face me, her eyes red and puffy.

  “I guess I’ve cried myself out,” she said softly. “I sit here feeling like I’m still crying, but the tears won’t come. It’s like I’ve run out of water. Is that silly or what?”

  I took her hand and squeezed it.

  Mackenzie stirred, and I looked across the seat at her.

  Eloise followed my gaze.

  “My baby,” she said, and gently touched the sleeping girl’s hair.

  “She’s a fine young lady.” I said.

  “She’s going to miss him. They loved each other so. Maybe he was mellowing in his old age; he was different the past few years: kinder, and gentler. He seemed to take more interest in us.” Eloise smiled. “He thought I was too lenient with Mackenzie of course, and we argued constantly about my spoiling her. But there was a lot of love there.”

  “Sorry I missed that,” I said before I could help it.

  “John David, will you stop it,” Eloise said loudly, waking Mackenzie. “You’re my brother and I love you, but I’m not going to listen to this anymore. I never knew you to feel sorry for yourself, but right now you are wallowing in self-pity. You can’t change what happened, and whether you want to believe it or not, he loved you in his way. He was what he was.”

  “Eloise . . .” I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say, but it didn’t matter, she wasn’t listening.

  “And whether you want to admit it or not,” she went on, “you loved and respected him too. Now grow up and see things for what they are. I swear you’re just as stubborn as he was.”

  I locked eyes with her, and then noticed Mackenzie watching us. “Does your mother ever talk to you like that?” I asked her.

  “Hardly ever.” Mackenzie said. “Only when I act stupid.”

  I studied my niece and smiled.

  “Okay, you’ve both made your point, so stop picking on me.”

  We rode the rest of the short way home in silence, each thinking our own thoughts and recalling our own memories of the life and death of Garnet Quincy Bragg.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Several of Eloise and Mackenzie’s friends were waiting for us on the front porch. Bucky came in right behind us, and followed me into the kitchen, with Eloise and Mackenzie congregating with their friends in the den.

  I pulled the bottle of Scotch out of the cupboard where I’d hidden it. I’d actually found a twelve-year-old Macallan in a liquor store in Pickens.

  “Macallan,” Bucky said. “You must be doing pretty well, old buddy.”

  “Not really, but this is worth going into debt for.”

  “I can’t believe Eloise let you bring a bottle into the house,” he said.

  “We’re not drinking in the house,” I said, grabbing two glasses from the kitchen cabinet. “We’re going outside.”

  We went out back to a weathered old picnic table under a spreading oak, and sat on the tabletop with our feet on the bench. I poured us both three fingers of Scotch, neat.

  “So, have you been staying out of trouble down there in hotlanta?” Bucky asked.

  “The only place I ever get into trouble is up here,” I said. “I wasn’t here a day and a half before I got into a fistfight.”

  “You’re kidding. “With who?”

  “A guy named Bobby Paige. A perfect stranger.”

  “Bobby Paige? Jesus J.D., you got a death wish? How the hell did you manage to tangle with him?”

  “He picked a fight with me at a place called the Silver Dollar.”

  Bucky grinned. “The Silver Dollar? What the hell were you doing there?”

  “Failing to use good judgment,” I said. “You sound like you know the guy.”

  “I do,” Bucky said. “He works for my father-in-law.”

  “Who’s your father-in-law?” I asked. “I heard you got married, but not until after the wedding.”

  “Sorry about that. Her family did the invitations and I didn’t get much of a say.”

  “Somebody I know?” I said.

  “I don’t think so,” Bucky said. “You and I never ran in Casey’s circles back in the day. At least I didn’t. She’s the daughter of Bailey McDaniel.”

  I couldn’t hide my surprise. “The Bailey McDaniel?”

  “One and the same.”

  The McDaniel family was Pickens County’s American royalty, our small version of the Rockefellers or Vanderbilts. Everyone knew the McDaniel family history, myself included. They practically taught it in school. It began with Ezra McDaniel, a carpetbagger who travelled south after the Civil War to build a factory on the west bank of the Saluda River to manufacture buggies and firearms. After Ezra’s death, at around the turn of the century, his son converted the factory into a textile mill, and upon its huge success, began building them one by one across the county, luring farm boys out of the cotton rows with ten cents an hour and the promise of company housing with indoor plumbing.

  This company housing, clustered around the mills, formed villages local folks called “mill hills,” and as McDaniel and others built new mills in proximity to one another, the mill hills merged together like joining cells, spawning entire towns. Textiles would become the lifeblood of the Piedmont region for three-quarters of a century, and the financial mainstay for the majority of people who lived on the southern fringe of the Appalachians from Alabama to Virginia. At one time, you either made your living farming, or you worked in a cotton mill, or you serviced those who did one or the other. Pickens County was no exception.

  But that way of life was gone. The Japanese entered the game in the fifties, followed by the Chinese. Now the textile industry in the south was all but extinct. Most of the original multi-storied plants were gone—either torn down, in ruins, or turned into condominium lofts. And the mill hills were now the ghettos of the new south.

  Bucky’s father-in-law Bailey McDaniel was the great-grandson of old Ezra. He now ran the company, which was only a shadow of the original textile empire, but he was still looked upon with great deference by anyone in the county over the age of fifty. Also, he still had hoards of family money in various investments—from real estate to Wall Street.

  “How did a hillbilly like you ever meet Bailey McDaniel’s daughter?” I asked.

  Bucky laughed. “She and a couple of her friends were slumming one night at a club in Greenville. I asked her to dance, and the rest,
as they say, is history.”

  “You got kids?”

  “We’re waiting a while on that,” he said, and left it at that.

  “What’s her old man like?”

  Bucky looked somewhere out over the lawn as he formed an answer.

  “Let’s just say I’m not the son my father-in-law wished he’d had.”

  It seemed to take something out of him to say that.

  “You still have the marina?” I asked, as much to change the subject as anything else.

  The last time I saw Bucky, he was struggling to make a success of a small marina on Lake Keowee, barely making ends meet and living in a little house on the property.

  “I sold it when I married Casey,” he said. “It wasn’t anything but an excuse to go fishing anyway.”

  Bucky stopped talking long enough to pour us three more fingers of Macallan.

  “Although I did love that marina,” he continued, his brow creased with private thoughts. “I always thought I could have made something out of the place. Expand. Get into high-end boat sales. Maybe build a restaurant and some condos.” He sighed and waved the vision away. “But I met the fair Casey McDaniel and had to get into something more dignified.”

  “So what are you doing now?”

  He studied his drink for a moment. “I’m vice president of operations at McDaniel Mills,” he said.

  I saw him looking for my reaction. “That’s great, Bucky,” I said.

  He smiled. “It’s a crock of shit. I know it and you know it. Hell, the whole goddamned world knows it. If I weren’t the son-in-law, I’d be lucky if they let me sweep up the place. It’s Bailey’s way to keep me from embarrassing him too much.”

  I didn’t know how to respond, and he didn’t seem to expect a reply.

  “So, what is it with this Bobby Paige?” I asked.

  “He’s been working with my father-in-law since before I even met Casey. Paige heads the construction crew for building and maintenance at the mills. Not something I’m all that involved in. He’s also sort of the old man’s ‘go to’ guy. He does repairs on his house; he built some stables out there last summer—that sort of thing. I think Paige thinks he’s more a part of the family than I am.” Bucky chuckled. “And maybe he is. But he’s a hard worker, I’ll give him that.”