The J D Bragg Mystery Series Box Set

by Ron Fisher

  “I’m sure he’s a regular employee of the month, when he’s not trying to bash in somebody’s skull,” I said.

  “I think he does do a bit of that. We leave each other pretty much alone.”

  Bucky went silent for a moment and then said, “Terrible thing about Garnet. You said they think it was probably some doper stealing to feed a habit.”

  “Sheriff Bagwell does,” I said.

  I felt him studying the side of my face.

  “You sound like you don’t,” he said.

  “Let’s just say I’m not as convinced as he is that the motive was robbery.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Just a theory based on some things I can’t prove yet.”

  He let his eyes linger on me for a moment.

  “If it wasn’t a robbery then what was it? I mean Garnet was a pain in the ass, but what other reason would anybody have to shoot him?”

  “My gut tells me he stumbled across something he shouldn’t have.”

  “Your gut,” he repeated, and gave me a skeptical look. “What does your gut tell you this something is?”

  “You know a guy named Carl Hood?”

  “Now there’s a name out of the past. Old man Cecil Hood’s son.”

  “So you know him?”

  “I know of him. I don’t know him. He’s a few years before our time, but a local legend. They say that at the old Bloody Bucket across the tracks in Easley, guys who thought they were badass would scatter like cockroaches under a light when he came in. They would leave their beers sitting on the bar and just walk out.” He gave me a questioning look. “Are you saying he’s got something to do with this?”

  “He sold his daddy’s farm almost before they could sod over the old man’s grave,” I said.

  “So?”

  “Old man Hood had refused to sell it. He told my grandfather that.”

  “I repeat, so? Cecil Hood’s dead. What’s wrong if his son sells the farm if he legally inherited it?”

  Bucky paused a moment at a thought he seemed to have.

  “He did inherit it, didn’t he?” he asked.

  “As far as I know,” I said. “It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it? I guess I don’t understand.”

  “The whole thing is just too damned convenient. It’s not public knowledge yet, but a rather large real estate development is coming to Eastatoe Valley. The developers are paying big money for land. The whole valley has pretty much been sold. Hood first told them he would sell and then he changed his mind. He told Grandfather that they would just have to wait until he was gone to get their hands on it. And that is exactly what happened. He conveniently dies, and his son Carl sells the land almost immediately.”

  “Whoa. You’re saying what? That Carl Hood killed his old man for the land? And then he killed your grandpa because he found out about it? Jesus J.D., that’s a fucking serious thing to lay off on somebody. What’ve you got to back that up?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time Carl Hood has killed someone. He did time for murder in Georgia. In fact, he hasn’t been out all that long.”

  “That just makes him capable, John David. It don’t make him guilty. Besides, last time I heard, old man Hood’s death was an accident.”

  “Just like Grandfather’s death was a robbery,” I offered, and met his gaze.

  “You tell any of this to the cops?”

  “Yes, but Sheriff Bagwell doesn’t think much of it.”

  “Well now, there’s a big surprise,” he said, and studied my face a moment. “Look J.D., the fact that this area has great development potential isn’t exactly a secret. Hell, even my father-in-law’s been trying to get on board that train ever since they dammed up the Keowee River. So it’s really no surprise that something’s finally happening in Eastatoe Valley. And as far as Carl Hood selling his daddy’s land so quickly, real estate agents would have been all over him before the funeral was over.”

  He looked like he wanted to say something else, but thought better of it.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Naaah, I’ll just keep my mouth shut.”

  “Say it.”

  “My advice, as your friend, is to leave this thing to Sheriff Bagwell. Maybe he’s no Sherlock Holmes, but he ain’t Barney Fife either. I believe if he thought this was anything other than what it seems, he’d be all over it like grease on a chilidog.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Bucky,” I said. “Anyway, there’s one thing I still need to do, and if I’m right, it may shed a new light on things. Do you know a Melissa Raines?”

  “I don’t think so. Who is she?”

  “She’s a pretty young thing that I need to talk to for a story I’m working on. This big time golfer assaulter her, and I’m trying to prove it. Grandfather was helping me locate her. It wouldn’t surprise me if she knows something about what’s going on in Eastatoe Valley that Sheriff Bagwell doesn’t know.”

  At that moment Kelly Mayfield came to the kitchen door and looked out at us. Bucky held up the bottle of Macallan, smiled, and gave her a questioning look. She smiled back, shook her head, and turned and walked away.

  “Speaking of pretty young things,” Bucky said.

  “You won’t get any disagreement from me,” I said. “But unfortunately, she despises me.”

  “You mean there’s a woman around that you can’t charm? You losing your touch, old buddy?”

  “I haven’t given up on her yet.”

  He drained the last of his Scotch and said, “I’ve got to go. Let’s do this again before you leave.” He smiled and added, “Have a drink I mean, not have a wake.”

  I laughed and agreed. “I’ll call you,” I said.

  After he left, I went back into the house to hide the bottle.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Eloise and Mackenzie were lost in conversation with friends and neighbors, most of whom I didn’t know. I would have liked to talk with Kelly Mayfield, but I didn’t think that would work. It usually takes two to converse.

  I tried to call Melissa Raines again but she still wasn’t answering. I decided to give her house another try. I sneaked out the back, got into the Jeep, and drove to her house. Her place was still dark, but her neighbor was home. I could hear a child crying through an open window on the toy-strewn porch. I walked over and rapped on the door, which was opened by a tiny woman with a toddler balanced on her hip. The kid’s chin was covered with something that looked like mashed carrots, and he was wailing like a fire engine. The woman looked up at me and blew a wisp of hair out of her face.

  I had to shout over the screaming kid to be heard. “I’m looking for Melissa from next door,” I said.

  “She’s not at home,” the woman shouted back. “She’s gone away for a while.”

  I understood what she said more by reading her lips than by hearing her.

  “Can you tell me where she’s gone?” I yelled.

  I must have startled the baby, because the crying died suddenly and the kid looked at me with eyes the size of half-dollars.

  She swung the kid to the other hip and gave me a long, hard look of appraisal.

  “She didn’t tell me that,” she said.

  She was a terrible liar. I knew it, and she knew I knew it.

  “Did you see her after she got back from Atlanta?” I asked.

  She gave me another long look.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “She didn’t look too good did she?” I asked.

  “No she didn’t,” the neighbor said, looking at me like I might be the one who did it.”

  I took out my press ID and showed it to her. Underneath bold red letters that spelled the word PRESS was my photo and name, and below that in smaller letters, the name of SportsWord magazine.

  “I need her to help me nail the guy that did that to her,” I said. “But I can’t do that unless she talks to me. I’m on her side.”

  She looked from my card up to me. The baby was starting to whimper again.
I could see she wanted to believe me.

  “Melissa told me she slipped and fell on an escalator in a shopping mall,” she finally said. “I take it that isn’t true.”

  “No it isn’t,” I said.

  The baby began an ear-splitting lament again, and the woman held up a forefinger and disappeared inside. When she returned she handed me a slip of paper with the words “Litchfield Beach Retreat” written on it.

  “She’s gone to the beach,” she said, over the baby’s squall. “Don’t tell her I gave you this, but I think she needs help.”

  I mimicked zipping up my lips, and thanked her. Litchfield Beach was just south of Myrtle Beach in Georgetown County on the South Carolina Coast. I’d been there before. It was less lively than Myrtle Beach, and a good place for someone to visit if they wanted to go unnoticed.

  The woman said something I didn’t catch, and I pointed to my ear and frowned.

  She motioned to the screaming kid and smiled apologetically.

  “It’s time for his nap,” she shouted.

  “Good luck,” I offered, and made my way back to the Jeep, thinking that I might postpone fatherhood a while longer.

  When I returned to Still Hollow, all the guests had left except Kelly Mayfield. I found her sitting alone in the den.

  “Where’s Eloise?” I asked.

  “She and Mackenzie are upstairs changing clothes.”

  I took a chair opposite her. We sat without speaking long enough for the moment to become awkward.

  “Why the change?” I finally asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re no longer treating me like something to avoid stepping in.”

  “You mean why have I stopped acting like a bitch?”

  “That would be another way of putting it, yes.”

  “Eloise tells me I’ve got the wrong opinion about you. She says you’re not really as bad as I think. So . . . I decided to try to be more open-minded about you.”

  “My sister is a wise and perceptive woman.”

  “You have to understand; your grandfather was one of the finest men I’ve ever known. I not only respected him, but I grew to love him like a second father. So when I saw this thing between you two causing him so much heartache, I couldn’t stand it. He never once spoke ill of you, but I naturally assumed that whatever was wrong was your fault. For him to be right, you had to be wrong. That’s the way I wanted to see it.”

  I studied the toes of my shoes and listened.

  “The few times he talked about you there was such a sadness in his voice, it got to me. It made me angry and . . . maybe even jealous. It was obvious he would’ve preferred to have you at the paper instead of me. I guess I didn’t like you for that either.”

  “I never once promised him that,” I said.

  She brushed my words away with the wave of a hand.

  “So, when I met you, I wanted to think the worst of you. I even tried to take my anger over Garnet’s senseless death out on you. I’m at least smart enough to know there are two sides to every story—and according to Eloise you have yours. I’ll accept that, even though I don’t know what it is. I’ll also accept the possibility that Garnet wasn’t the saint I made him out to be, and conversely, that you may not be the prick I thought you were.”

  She looked at me, her pupils like perfectly round drops of India ink.

  “I know that you cared about him, no matter what happened between the two of you. I think his death has hit you harder than you let on.”

  “What makes you believe that?” I asked.

  “I saw it in your face when you were going through his desk at the Clarion.”

  “You saw me in there and didn’t chew me out?”

  “You were busy looking at his scrapbook, so you didn’t see me stick my head in. I decided to leave you alone.”

  She seemed to understand something about me that I barely understood myself. She was a lot like Eloise in that respect. Or were all women like that?

  She stuck out a hand. “Truce?” she asked.

  “Truce,” I answered, and shook it.

  “Eloise has invited me to dinner tonight. Do you have any objections?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good. Maybe you’ll bring me up to date on the sale of the paper. It would be nice to know how much longer I can count on a regular paycheck.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Thankfully, Eloise suggested we forego the food from the fridge and grill steaks on the back porch for dinner, so Mackenzie and Kelly went with her to buy some T-bones and fresh salad makings, leaving me to ramble about the house alone.

  As the last rays of the sun were now fading behind the hills, I went around turning on a few lights. I sat down in the den and turned the TV on to ESPN to see what I was missing in the world of sports.

  Suddenly, the large antique mirror on the wall across the room shattered. I dove to the floor, an automatic defensive reflex, as I heard the echo of a gunshot from the woods behind the house. A small dark hole, about the size of a dime, appeared in the center of the mirror; a spider web of cracks spreading outward in a large circle. An identical hole had also punctured a windowpane on the other side of the room.

  Rising up slowly, I turned off the lamp, went down on my hands and knees and crawled to the window to peek over the sill. Twilight had turned the backyard a deep purple, and the heavy woods behind even darker. The shadows among the trees revealed nothing.

  I looked from the hole in the window to the mirror. If someone was trying to hit me, they were a piss-poor shot, because the bullet missed me by at least ten feet. If they were trying to scare me however, they were more successful.

  Staying away from the windows, I crept over to the gun cabinet in the corner and took out a twelve-gauge shotgun and some shells. Breaching and loading as I went, I grabbed a flashlight out of a kitchen drawer and went through the back door, crossing the lawn with a bit of broken field running like I was flushed out of the pocket and heading for the chains. I plunged into the woods and went to a knee behind a large tree. Over the sound of my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest, I heard the growl of an automobile engine start up and then fade away along the old logging road that bordered our property beyond the woods. The sound was throaty and large and I wondered if it came from a white pickup truck. Whoever it was had local knowledge of the area, because as far as I knew, the road back there wasn’t on any map.

  Working my way inside the tree line to a place opposite the den window, I switched on the flashlight and examined the ground for several yards in either direction, and then cast the beam back into the woods. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for—some revealing clue like in the movies perhaps—a carelessly dropped matchbook cover with the name of a bar on it, or initials carved into a tree while the shooter waited for me to show my face at the window. But there was nothing like that. Not a broken twig, not a spent shell, and thanks to the carpet of old pine straw and dead leaves, not even a footprint.

  The shot probably didn’t come from too far back in the trees. The dense growth of thick pines and large, leafy hardwoods would have created an impenetrable wall between the shooter and the house, making the shot difficult, if not impossible, from a distance. The house must have been in plain sight when the shot was fired. This meant that the shooter was close. But, wherever the shooter was then, he was gone now.

  I was in the kitchen pouring water into the coffeemaker when Eloise, Kelly, and Mackenzie returned. I turned to find them staring at the shotgun lying on the kitchen table.

  “What’s that doing there?” Eloise asked.

  “Somebody shot through the window in the den while you were gone,” I said.

  “Shot through the window? Who?”

  “You got me. I got the shotgun and went looking for them. But whoever it was, was already gone.”

  Kelly Mayfield wore a horrified look. “Do you think they were shooting at you?”

  “They seemed to have it in for that big
mirror on the wall,” I replied. “I hope you weren’t too fond of it, Eloise. It’s shattered all to hell.”

  Everyone trailed my sister into the den where she stopped and gazed at the broken mirror as if she expected to see an instant replay reflected in it.

  “You were in here when it happened?” she asked, alarm all over her face.

  “Over there,” I said pointing to the chair.

  “Thank God you were on the other side of the room,” Kelly said, and glanced at the matching hole in the window. “Who would be out there shooting a gun at night?”

  Eloise’s eyes met mine, and we looked at each other for a moment, her face full of apprehension. I guess my talking about theories and suspicions of murder, made her quick to assume the worst. I wished now I’d never said a word. I discovered Kelly watching us, her face occupied with thoughts.

  “Maybe it was the Medlin boys again,” Mackenzie offered. “They’re not supposed to hunt back there, but they do. They shot one of mama’s goats once, thinking it was a deer.”

  Eloise seemed to brighten at the explanation, as if she was anxious to accept Mackenzie’s suggestion over any darker alternatives.

  “I wouldn’t put it past the little devils to fire toward the house,” she said, as she warmed to the idea. “Especially if some poor helpless creature got between them and us. I put out feed for the deer and turkeys back there, and it attracts all kinds of animals. It’s probably just too much temptation for those boys.”

  “Jimmy’s in my class and Noel’s two grades back,” Mackenzie added. “When they shot the goat, Mama went and talked to their daddy and he whipped their butts.”

  “You’re going to call the police and report this, aren’t you?” Kelly asked, still looking at me. “Kids or not, they could have killed you.”

  I looked away quickly, not trusting my ability to conceal my doubts about it being a couple of kids who couldn’t shoot straight.