by Ron Fisher
“She won’t be interested in me,” I said. “I’m not husband material for someone like her. I don’t have any money.”
“That doesn’t mean she won’t look at you as an appetizer for the main event.” She laughed and added, “I don’t think a country boy like you has ever met anyone like her. She’s a man thief. I learned that in College. But If she messes with you, I’ll smack her silly,” she added.
“I know you will,” I said. “You even scare me.”
“You remember that,” she said and laughed.
Kelly and Eloise got up to clear the dinner table and wash dishes. I went to help them.
Later, Kelly and I went back to her place. There was a lot to do tomorrow, but nothing as pleasurable as what Kelly and I did later. Not once did my mind drift to Jamal or Taylor Johnson.
CHAPTER FIVE
Kelly made an early breakfast for us on Tuesday morning. In the world of calorie counting, it was the polar opposite of the dinner at Eloise’s the previous night. This morning, the menu was a grapefruit half with sugar substitute, a slice of whole wheat toast with low-fat butter, no jam, and a cup of black coffee. The complete breakfast had fewer calories than one bite of Eloise’s blackberry pie. My brain told me this was the right way to eat, but the rest of me would always want the pie.
We sat at the kitchen table and talked. Out the window, a couple of early-bird golfers drove their carts around the golf course. Kelly wasn’t a golfer, but she leased her home in the Pickens Country Club neighborhood for the open spaces and the view. A perfectly manicured rolling fairway lay just outside her windows. Leasing a house and not buying one was another reminder of the unanswered questions about the future of our relationship. I rented my apartment in Atlanta, too. Both of us seemed to be living in a holding pattern.
“So, how do you feel about your ‘horse country’ story?” she asked.
“I’m liking it,” I said. “Beyond helping me access people who may know what happened to Jamal, it offers a potential literary theme that readers like. If I can put some teeth into it.”
“And what might that be?”
“Exposing the dark underbelly of a spoiled, wealthy clique and their foul deeds always make a cracking good story. People love to hear bad stuff about rich people. You know what they say, if you're rich you couldn't have gotten that way honestly.”
She laughed. “Who says that?”
“People who aren't rich.”
“There you go, sounding like your grandfather again.”
“I don’t have anything against rich people. Unless they got there dishonestly, or on the backs of the less fortunate. Neither did Grandfather. It was hypocrisy and phoniness he didn’t like. He would often say ‘a principled man is one who does the right thing when nobody is looking.’ Being principled has nothing to do with how much money you’ve got.”
“And that doesn’t describe you to a T?”
“I wish. But I’ll never be the man he was.”
“Stop selling yourself short, J.D.,” Kelly said and smiled at me.
“I don’t know if I’m principled as much as I’m just an avenger of the unprincipled. I enjoy meting out justice a little too much with the stories I choose to write.”
“Well, whatever you are, I love you for it,” she said.
I stood up and kissed her. “I need to go if I’m going to meet your Natasha at twelve o’clock, and I have something else to do first. I’m going ask the cops where they are on finding Jamal. I suddenly realized I didn’t know who had police jurisdiction over that little corner of Northeast Greenville County. The closest towns were Tryon, over the line in North Carolina, and Landrum, in South Carolina, but Landrum was in Spartanburg County, the next county to the east. Mrs. Johnson’s mailing address was ‘Landrum,’ but I didn’t think the city police from there came over to Greenville County. I asked Kelly.
“Greenville County Sheriff’s Department,” she said. “I have the card of the chief investigating deputy.” She went and got it for me. “I hope you have better luck than I did. All he would tell me is Jamal did it and he’ll turn up eventually.”
I took the card and said, “We’ll see, I said. “Maybe the cops have made progress since you talked to them.”
“I hope so,” she said. “Give me updates if you discover anything, and say hi to Natasha for me,” she added, and left for work.
I called the number on the deputy’s card and man answered after a couple of rings. “Deputy Randy Waldrop,” he said.
“Deputy Waldrop,” I said, “my name is J.D. Bragg, and I’m a friend of the Millie Johnson family. I was hoping you could spend a few minutes talking to me about Mrs. Johnson’s missing son, Jamal?”
There was a pause as if the Deputy was taking his time forming a response to my request.
“What would you like to know . . . Mr. Bragg, was it?”
“Yes, J.D. Bragg. I’d rather come in and talk to you in person if you have a few minutes this morning.”
Again, he paused before he spoke.
“I’ll be at the Sheriff’s Department northern area command center at 4900 Old Buncombe Road until eleven. I can see you any time before that if you can make it.”
“Where exactly is 4900 Old Buncombe Road?” I asked.
“Do you know where Furman University is?”
I said I did.
“The Northern Command Center is just south on Old Buncombe Road just before it joins U.S. Highway 276 north. It will be on your right.”
I knew exactly where that was. It was nearer the city of Greenville than I’d guessed—the designation Northern Area Command suggested it might be further north, nearer the Dark Corner, but I could easily make that and still be at Natasha Ladd’s by noon if I hurried.
“I’ll see you there inside thirty minutes,” I said and hung up.
CHAPTER SIX
The Sheriff’s Northern Command Center was hard to miss. Several Sheriff’s cruisers, dark blue Fords with a yellow stripe down their sides, sat in the parking lot next door. Deputy Waldrop was waiting for me in a small office inside the one-story flat-topped building. He was about my age and wore a dark blue uniform. He had Marine Corps short hair and the fit look of someone who worked hard at it. We shook hands as I introduced myself. He gave me an apprehensive look and pointed to a metal chair across his desk. I took it.
“So, what can I do for you, Mr. Bragg?” he asked.
“I was wondering if you could give me some details regarding Jamal Johnson, the missing teenager who’s supposed to have shot the horse up in the Dark Corner. What he’s charged with, what evidence you have, and what progress you’re making.”
It was a moment until he spoke. Deputy Waldrop seemed to be overly deliberate in his actions.
“Tell me again what your interest is in this,” he replied.
“I’m a family friend, and I’ve promised the Johnsons I would help them stay informed of your efforts to find Jamal. You probably know his mother is convinced he’s innocent and doesn’t know where he is or why he’s missing. You can understand how worried the family is.”
“You need to understand this is an ongoing investigation and there are some things I can’t tell you.”
It sounded like standard issue cop-speak. “I understand. I’d just like to have some details to give them.”
He’s still in the wind,” Deputy Waldrop said. “We haven’t found him. We’re checking with known associates and relatives, and we have a missing-persons out on him.”
“What are the charges against him?” I asked.
“Malicious Injury of Property over $10,000, a felony. He could face up to 10 years in prison, and a possible fine. He’s on the cusp between a juvenile and an adult, so that could go either way. This horse was worth a lot of money, so I’d advise his family to get a lawyer and prepare for the worst.”
“You found the rifle that killed the horse in a storage shed out back of the Johnson’s house, I understand,” I said.
“That’s
correct,” he said. “Ballistics prove it’s the same gun.”
“If you went to the trouble of a ballistics test, did you check for finger prints too?”
“The weapon was wiped clean.”
“Mrs. Johnson has sworn the rifle didn’t belong to her boy,” I said. “She claims he’s never owned a gun of any kind.”
“It’s not exactly unheard of for a teenager to keep secrets from his mother,” Deputy Watson said. “He could also have borrowed it. A cheap rifle like that is basically untraceable.”
“Since the shed was kept unlocked, couldn’t anyone have placed the gun there?”
“It’s possible, of course, but given the threats Johnson made to Mr. Kroll when Kroll fired him a few days earlier, the rifle, and the suspect’s lack of an alibi, give us motive, means, and opportunity. The fact he ran also makes him look guilty.”
“But, you only have Mr. Kroll’s word for the firing and the threat, right? Are you aware Jamal told his mother and his girlfriend that Kroll let him go because there was insufficient work for him at his stables, and Jamal held no animosity toward the man?”
“We’ve heard that,” Waldrop said, “but the suspect, of his own actions, isn’t here to give his account of the incident.”
“In fact, there were no other witnesses to the threat . . . or to the shooting of the horse, was there?”
“No, there were no witnesses to either event. A stable-hand found the horse dead in a stall early the next morning.”
Waldrop sat and stared across his desk at me. “We’re doing our job, Mr. Bragg. Now if there’s nothing else, I have other work to do today.”
“What if you’re wrong,” I said, remaining in my seat. “What if Jamal Johnson didn’t shoot the horse? Would he run away then? Was it because he knew someone was framing him? Or, did he go missing for an entirely different reason? Like someone making him disappear?”
“Do you have any evidence we don’t have?” he asked, unsmiling.
“Not beyond the many people, family and friends, who believe the kid didn’t do it,” I said. “When that many people stand up for the kid, it makes you want to believe them.”
“As I’ve said,” Mr. Bragg, “All the real evidence we have says he shot the horse and ran away to keep from getting busted. He’ll turn up eventually if that’s the case.”
“I just want to know, for his family’s sake, that you’re looking at this from every angle, and are not just taking the horse owner’s word for it. It’s been my experience that the most likely person to dispose of a horse is the owner—for the insurance money.
“Mr. Kroll has an iron-clad alibi. He was in Kentucky at a horse auction when the horse was shot on Friday night, and didn’t return until late Sunday.”
“That well may be, but Mr. Kroll didn’t have to shoot the horse himself, he could have had help.”
Deputy Waldrop looked at me, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“What is your experience in things like this, Mr. Bragg?” he finally said. “I thought you said you were just a friend of the family?”
“I am,” I said. “But I’m also an investigative journalist, and I have prior experience with equine insurance fraud.”
“You should have identified yourself as that,” he said.
“Why, would you have said anything different to me?”
“I might not have said anything to you at all. As I told you, this is an investigation in progress, and we’re careful about what we say to the press.”
“I’m not the press,” I said, “I work with SportsWord Magazine.”
“I used to subscribe to that magazine,” he said.
Used to. I fought off the petty urge to ask him why he no longer subscribed, hoping it wasn’t my fault, but I didn’t.
“Look, Deputy Waldrop, I just want to make sure you’re covering all the bases. Jamal’s mother is convinced something bad has happened to him.”
“You’re that guy, aren’t you?” Waldrop said, pointing his finger at me. “That sportswriter who solved those murders over in Pickens County. You caught the guy who killed your grandfather. I thought your name sounded familiar.”
He studied me for a minute longer, then leaned over and opened a desk drawer. He took out a business card and placed it toward me on the edge of his desk. I picked it up and looked at it. It was for a Brandon Wise, Investigator, Olympic Equine Insurance Company. I noticed the company headquarters was in Louisville, Kentucky, with branch offices in Virginia, Maryland, and Tryon, North Carolina. The area code for Mr. Wise’s number was 828, which was the same as Natasha’s, so he worked at the Tryon office.
I looked up at Waldrop, and he almost smiled at me.
“You and this guy have similar suspicions,” he said.
I gave him a two-fingered salute, got up, and left.
CHAPTER SEVEN
From the deputy’s office, I drove north to upper Greenville County, turned east on Highway 11 for a few miles, then headed north again on Oak Grove Road through the area called the Dark Corner. There was a faster way to where I was going, but I decided to check out the area; it had been a long time since I was there. I wound my way through the rolling terrain past peach orchards, pastures, horse farms, country homes both large and small, and a Baptist church with old tombstones covering the neighboring hill. The hump of Hogback Mountain loomed on my left the whole way; it’s heavily forested summit appeared close enough in the clear morning air to almost reach out and touch it.
With a few twists and turns, I crossed over the North Carolina state line into the border town of Tryon and the heart of the area’s horse and steeplechase country. I quickly found Hunting Club Road and headed east, where Natasha Ladd lived. The GPS directions on my cell phone lying on the console of my Jeep showed I would find her house approximately two miles ahead. The total driving distance from Kelly’s house was about forty-five miles, and I was right on time for my twelve o’clock appointment.
Hunting Club Road was a perfectly landscaped two-lane blacktop lined with brown or white rail fences, emerald green rolling pastures, tall trees, and country estates that would put clubhouses at most country clubs to shame. All the houses sat back from the road, surrounded by impressive stables, many with jumps and training rings near them. The houses were spaced far enough apart to illustrate the sizable acreage on which they sat.
Magnificent horses grazed and frolicked in some of the pastures. Everywhere I looked was a Country Living magazine cover. The neighborhood was truly an enclave of the very wealthy. I couldn’t help thinking that just a couple of miles away in any direction, people lived in rusting doublewides and small two bedroom homes, and happy to have them. An island of rich folks in the middle of tobacco road, I thought. Income inequality illustrated.
As I neared her house on Hunting Club Road, I stopped for a group of horseback riders crossing the road in front of me. The riders were clad perfectly in fox-hunting attire. They wore black hacking jackets and hard bowler hats with white riding pants and shiny black knee boots. They followed a man dressed in the same way but in a red coat. He would be the “Hunt Master” if my memory of what little I knew about fox-hunting served me. A dozen yapping hounds led them into a grassy meadow. I rolled down my window to see and hear them better, and an attractive young female rider saw me and smiled.
"Tally ho,” I said in my best British accent and smiled back at her. Where the hell am I? The North Carolina hills, or Bramham Moor in Yorkshire? The woman broke from the rest of them and rode over, still smiling at me.
“Are you J.D.?” she asked, looking down at me from her perch atop a large brown horse. The animal looked like it might stick its head through my window and take a bite out of me as if I were a shiny red apple. I had ridden horses, and even a plow mule belonging to a childhood friend’s old man, but I was just a tenderfoot compared to these people.
“Yes, I am,” I said, “and you would be Natasha.” Kelly didn’t exaggerate. Natasha Ladd was a striking woman.
; “We’re heading in from a morning hunt that ran a little long,” she said, “but they usually do. So, go on up to my house and wait for me, if you don’t mind. It’s the next driveway on the left. My little bungalow is to the right of the big house. I’ll be along as soon as I put Cherry away. It should only be a few minutes.”
Cherry might be the horse’s name, but it fit as a description for both horse and rider. They both looked to be in mint condition.
I took the next driveway and drove up to her “little bungalow.” While it was only about a fifth the size of the large estate next door, it was still five times as big as my apartment in Atlanta.
Architecturally, it was the same as the big house; a steep wood-shingled roof and sharp gables, and built with the same dusty-rose-colored brick. It was as if they tore off a wing of the big house and pushed it about fifty yards away. A stable with some of the same trimmings and big enough for a dozen horses sat behind everything.
I cut the engine and waited. Two landscapers worked the flowers and shrubs at the big house, another one edging the walk that dissected the perfectly manicured lawn. I could smell the sweet aroma of gardenias blooming somewhere. The occasional whinny of a horse and the song of a distant Mockingbird, the only sounds of a quiet, peaceful morning in paradise. I didn’t hate the rich; I envied the hell out of them.
A few minutes later Natasha Ladd came around the corner of her house, hat and hacking jacket in her hand.
“Who lives next door?” I asked.
“My parents, but you won’t get to meet them. They’re in Europe. An overdue vacation. It will be the first Upcountry Steeplechase they’ve missed in years.”
Natasha made motions for me to follow her in, and as I did, I noticed her front door wasn’t locked. Clearly, here in paradise, no one worried about home intruders and burglars.