PICKED OFF

by Linda Lovely

  Eva shook her head. “Well, at least you had enough sense to make a hasty retreat. You’d better not be planning another visit.”

  “No way,” I answered and meant it. “I’ve learned my lesson. It doesn’t pay to call on hostile Ardon residents.”

  I stood, walked to the stove, and lifted the lid off the vegetable soup. It smelled heavenly. “Besides, I think Fred’s a real longshot on any potential attacker list. Paint would have noticed him coming in the barn’s front door, and I can’t imagine that guy shucking his fancy suit and tasseled loafers to dress like a cat burglar and wiggle through a back window in the barn.”

  Mollye nodded. “You should have asked. I coulda given you a full report without you tellin’ fibs about Eva’s fine truck. Fred doesn’t need a pitchfork to seek revenge. Not when he’s screwing Allie Gerome. She’s a big help in the retaliation department.”

  “What?” Eva and I gasped in unison.

  Mollye laughed. “Thought you knew, Eva. Allie the widow and Fred the divorcé have been doing the horizontal samba for at least a year. Way I heard it they took a course for concealed carry together and wound up buying matching Glocks. Neither one of them will leave home without a pistol.”

  I shuddered. “Wonder if he closes his eyes tight and thinks of free advertising for his dealership every time he boinks her.”

  “Yuck,” Eva said. “I hope he gets lots of free ink. Not what I’d call a fair trade. But they both have a lot of bottled up hate. Guess we ought to be glad Allie prefers maligning her enemies to shooting them.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Fred marries Allie,” Mollye added. “She has piles of money.”

  “Right. Eva told me her development company holds title to big chunks of real estate all across the state.”

  I set a hunk of cheese and a loaf of bread on companion cutting boards in the middle of the table. “Ladle up your own soup, ladies. Add as much cheese as you like. I’ll just start a cholesterol pool and take bets on when your LDL will break the five-hundred barrier.”

  Once we were chowing down, I returned to Fred’s conviction that Carol had done something unforgivable. “So since I’ve given Scout’s honor I won’t return to Fred’s dealership, will someone tell me why he hates Carol?”

  Eva stared down at her soup bowl. “Nobody knows the truth except Carol and Zack. Well, I guess Quatro and Deputy Aaron West knew, too, but they’re both dead.

  “I never pried. Too much heartache. Whatever the truth may be, it wouldn’t have changed my opinion of Carol. Anything she did was out of love. Zack’s future could have ended with that horrible car wreck. No way to bring Fred’s boy back to life.”

  “What does Fred think Carol did?” I was still baffled.

  Mollye shifted in her chair. “My granny suspects Zack was drunk as a skunk and driving that Jeep when it plowed into a telephone pole, throwing both boys out of the car like wild pitches.

  “The way the rumor goes, Quatro, that was Fred the fourth’s nickname, died instantly. Deputy West was first on the scene, and phoned Carol right after he called EMS. Fred’s convinced she talked West into putting Quatro’s corpse in the driver’s seat and ditching the liquor bottle he found.”

  “Why would West go along? A payoff?”

  Given my prior dealings with the deceased deputy, I felt certain a bribe would have worked.

  Eva stood and carried her empty soup bowl to the sink. “If—and I emphasize if—Carol asked West to do such a thing, she wouldn’t have offered money. She was deep in debt, paying off her dead husband’s medical bills. West’s nephew was a friend of Zack’s and a teammate. If—again if she interfered—I imagine she argued Zack’s grave injuries and guilt would be a high enough price for youthful folly—if he even lived.”

  “Was there an inquest?”

  “Yes, but Fred claimed it was rigged,” Eva answered. “Said Quatro would never have driven Zack’s jeep. Authorities concluded there were insufficient grounds to doubt the official report.”

  Mollye shook her head. “Granny thinks Zack’s fame has fed Fred’s bitterness. The person he blames for his son’s death is now a celebrity, rolling in money, living the high life.”

  “Did blood tests show both boys had been drinking?” I asked.

  “If there were blood tests, the results were never made public,” Eva answered. “We’re talking twenty years ago in a tight, rural community. Back then local newspapers wouldn’t publish a story that smeared the reputation of high school football heroes.”

  “Has Carol ever talked about the accident?” I asked.

  Eva shook her head. “No, and I’m not going to second-guess her. Quatro was dead, and Carol wanted to protect Zack. This is ancient, irrelevant history, and no one”—Eva looked directly at me— “should muck around picking at old scabs.”

  My aunt shucked the light-weight shawl she’d draped around her shoulders while we ate. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get out of my nightgown and get dressed. It’s past time for me to head to the hospital.”

  Mollye helped me put away the leftovers and wash the dishes, by hand of course. Usually the cabin only had one “dishwasher”—me. My aunts had never seen fit to invest in a mechanical version.

  We were just finishing our cleanup chores, when Eva re-emerged from her bedroom. At the front door, she started to wave goodbye, then dropped her hand. “Brie, I forgot to mention I spoke with Phil Owens and Bob Codner at the fundraiser before the gatecrashers arrived. I asked them to come by for lunch after church tomorrow so we can talk more about ARGH preparing a conservation easement for Udderly.

  “Your folks are flying home tonight, right? Ask them to join us for lunch. I want Iris to hear what Phil and Bob have to say.”

  “Good idea,” I replied. “Mom’s reviewed some land trust agreements for clients, and Dad includes information about conservation easements in his courses. I’ll issue the invite when I pick them up at the airport.”

  TWELVE

  There’s not much to do when you’re sitting in an airport cell phone lot, awaiting word on a plane’s arrival. I checked out social media and Google, searching for any insights into Zack’s lifestyle and potential enemies.

  My first stop? Zack’s Facebook fan page, now overflowing with get-well wishes and ubiquitous sad-faced emoticons. However, as I scrolled back in time, a number of posts weren’t so friendly. Next I tried various Twitter-feed hashtags to see the tone of tweets related to Zack and the Sin City Aces.

  Oh, my.

  I hadn’t watched Thursday’s game when the strongly favored Aces lost 28-7. Apparently, the only people Zack made happy with his less-than-stellar performance that night were fans in the opposing camp and gamblers betting against the odds.

  While I watched the occasional football game with Dad, I was a hit-and-miss viewer. I didn’t have a favorite team. I’d seen a few ESPN stories about Zack, but paid them scant attention since I’d never met the man.

  I googled the Sin City Aces and scanned more articles. Tons of choices. The first post I clicked on had an intriguing headline: “New Team Owner Chastises Porker Aces.”

  A black-and-white photo accompanying the story showed a well-endowed woman wearing a T-shirt with ACES emblazoned across her chest. Underneath the big letters, smaller type read “No Porkers.” I wished the picture had been in color. Somehow the woman looked like she’d be white-blonde like Marilyn Monroe.

  I read the story. Sala Lemmon, the woman pictured, inherited controlling interest of the Aces when her much-older husband, Ray, passed away eighteen months ago. The will made the minority stockholder, Kate Lemmon, extremely unhappy. Kate, a daughter from a previous marriage, was about the same age as her stepmother.

  I laughed out loud when I got to a quote from Sala Lemmon, a Las Vegas showgirl prior to her nuptials.

  “When I danced, we worked our buns off to stay in shape
,” she said. “I expect no less from some candy-ass players, who think blubber qualifies them to waddle on the field. Sure, some positions require extra beef, but there’s no excuse for flabby porkers. Now that I own the team, every Sin City Aces player will be physically fit or be gone. If I have to take the field to show them what a real workout looks like, I will.”

  I startled when my phone beeped. I picked up without looking at the caller ID. I expected Dad’s voice. Instead Aunt Eva began talking before I could eke out a hello.

  “Ask that lawyer mother of yours a question,” she began. “I went to Carol’s to collect fresh clothes. Soon as I put her house key in the lock, two men materialized and strong-armed me. Claimed they were security for the Sin City Aces and wanted to know what business I had at the house.”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” I interrupted. “Sounds like extra protection.”

  “I thought so until they said they were there to take possession of Zack’s computer and iPhone. Team property, or so they claimed. Said they needed to prevent the items from falling into the wrong hands.”

  “That sounds weird,” I agreed, “staking out the house instead of contacting Carol. Wonder what they meant by the wrong hands? Would Zack keep football plays on his computer or iPhone?”

  Eva made that noise in her throat that indicated she wasn’t finished and didn’t expect to be interrupted again. “Told them I’d ask Carol’s permission when I saw her. Meanwhile, no dice. I wouldn’t let them in the house. They walked out of earshot and had a whispered meeting of the minds. I had the same thought you did. Didn’t seem a legit approach to seizing Zack’s property.”

  “Want me to ask Mom if Carol’s obliged to hand over her son’s electronics without his okay?”

  “Yes, Carol wants the answer in case Zack’s phone turns up. When I told Carol about the men, she was doubly puzzled. Zack left his computer in Vegas, and she had no idea where his iPhone might be. The deputies didn’t find Zack’s phone at Udderly, even though Paint and some other folks thought they saw him texting on it before Carol’s speech. Sheriff Mason wanted the phone to check it for leads.”

  “Think those men at Carol’s house were really security? Did you ask to see ID?”

  Eva harrumphed. “Now how would I know if some piece of plastic was legit or bogus? Even if I had a magnifying glass to examine a badge, I still wouldn’t know.”

  My phone beeped. “Eva, Mom and Dad are here. I’ll call you after I pick them up.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll be home by the time you get to Udderly. I’m leaving as soon as Carol gets back. The staff’s letting her use employee facilities to take a shower and change clothes.”

  I pulled my Prius into the pick-up area and scanned the brightly-lit sidewalk for Dad since Mom was easy to miss. A skinny lamp post could hide Mom—Iris Hooker, Esquire. A size two, she could shop in the children’s department in a pinch, though she’d be hard-pressed to find the boxy suits she wore for court appearances. Mom’s the attorney for the City of Clemson. While her five-foot-two stature might be unintimidating, her opponents quickly learn what I discovered as a toddler—you can pack TNT in a small package.

  At nearly six-feet tall, Dad—Professor Howard Hooker—was much easier to spot. He was more easy-going than Mom. When I was a kid and forced to fess up to joining in the toilet-papering of the mayor’s house, Dad was my preferred confessor. I knew both my parents loved me, and I loved them, but I was definitely Daddy’s girl.

  Dad waved his arms. I flashed my lights, popped the trunk, and climbed out of the car for the standard round of hugs. As I walked around the bumper, I noticed a woman bustling through the airport doors. Though she wore heels tall enough to trigger my fear of heights, she marched ahead at full speed with nary a wobble. Did I know her? She looked familiar.

  She disappeared from view when Dad’s bear hug swallowed me. My folks had only been gone five days, but something about airport settings always made people want to demonstrate that their affections hadn’t changed.

  Mom, next in line, released me from my hug and handed me a shopping bag emblazoned with the Iowa State University seal. “We got you a little something. Didn’t want you to forget your heritage.”

  Whatever was inside the bag felt squishy soft. Definitely fabric. Though I’d never attended ISU, I had more swag from my folks’ alma mater than I did from Wake Forest University, my own school. I smiled. “I bet whatever’s inside is Iowa State cardinal and gold.”

  “Can’t surprise you, can we?” Dad said, as I pulled out a hooded college sweatshirt. “We figured it would come in handy now that the bite of fall’s in the air.”

  “Thanks.” I kissed both of them on their cheeks.

  Dad put their luggage in the trunk and opened the front passenger door for Mom. She declined. “You’ve got the long legs, dear. I’ll sit in back.”

  Dad held Mom’s door, then folded himself into the front seat. “Brie, any update on Zack? The news reports haven’t provided any concrete information.”

  As we drove away from the airport, I told them what little I knew, and ended with Eva’s question about the cell phone. I couldn’t see Mom’s expression in the darkened backseat, but I detected a note of hesitation in her answer.

  “I don’t believe Zack’s personal effects would belong to the team unless the Aces purchased the items for official use. And why the big-deal urgency in seizing his phone or computer unless they suspect the devices contain information or images that could damage the team’s performance or brand? Makes me wonder whose ‘wrong hands’ they think might snatch the phone. Other teams? Gamblers? Tabloids?”

  I shrugged. “So what’s your advice?”

  “For starters, Carol should call the owner of the Aces and ask him to identify any team representatives he’s sent to Ardon.”

  Dad cleared his throat. “Actually it’s a she. The owner of the Sin City Aces is a woman, Sala Lemmon, and she hasn’t exactly been welcomed into the old boys’ club.”

  I smiled. I enjoyed watching college games with Dad, but that was because I wanted to spend time with him, not because of the game. I paid little attention to football, especially pro teams. Dad, however, was an avid fan.

  Mom cleared her throat. “Then Carol should contact Ms. Lemmon, and demand some answers, including what interest the team has in Zack’s phone and computer.”

  That’s when the ball dropped. That woman on high-heeled stilts at the airport. She looked familiar because I’d just seen her face. In black-and-white newsprint, not color. Sala Lemmon had arrived in Ardon County.

  “I don’t think Carol will need to phone Ms. Lemmon. She’s here. I saw her leaving the airport terminal right behind you. It just took me awhile to place her face. My guess is she’s on her way to the hospital.”

  Dad nodded. “Probably wants a first-hand report on her investment. Whatever she may think of Zack as a human being, he’s a valuable asset. If his football career is over, she’ll need to make some hard decisions quickly.”

  “What kind of insurance does a professional team have to protect against losses like this?” Mom mused.

  That thought hadn’t occurred to me, but another had. Maybe Sala Lemmon wanted something more than a first-hand report on Zack’s condition. Maybe she wanted Zack’s phone and computer. That pointed my brain in a different direction.

  “Do you suppose whoever attacked Zack took his phone? Maybe he was clobbered because someone wanted something on his phone and didn’t think he’d just hand it over.”

  Dad made a low humming noise in his throat as he considered my question.

  “That’s possible. But the news reports said Zack was knocked out and then speared with a pitchfork after he was out cold. If getting the phone was the reason for the attack, you’d think the assailant would pocket the phone and hot-foot it out of there. No pitchfork theatrics. That seems awfully vengeful.”
>
  I smiled. “Well, Dad, in your plots the bad guys always try to direct suspicion to others by leaving false clues. Maybe the attacker was just a thug for hire but his employer suggested that he make it look personal.”

  While Dad heads Clemson University’s horticultural department, he’s a closet crime novelist who constantly tries out potential mystery plots on Mom and me.

  Dad chuckled. “You’re right, Brie. Maybe the pitchfork is a red herring, though it’ll be a very painful one for Zack once he comes out of his coma.”

  Since none of us seemed to have any more insights into Sala Lemmon’s personal visit or the whereabouts of the quarterback’s missing cell phone, I changed the subject.

  “Eva invited ARGH’s president and founder to lunch tomorrow to discuss a conservation easement. She’d like both of you to join her. Are you free?”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Mom nod.

  “We have to attend church. The Clemson police chief’s daughter is being confirmed but noon should be safe,” she said. “Is that all right with you, Howard?”

  “Sure, I’ll just record the football games to make sure I don’t miss anything.”

  I didn’t need to look in the backseat to know Mom was rolling her eyes.

  “I hope you’re planning to sit in, Brie,” she said. “If anything happens to Eva, you inherit Udderly. You need to understand how an easement could affect a sale of the property.”

  “Eva and I have talked about it. I’d sure hate for Udderly to be paved over for student housing, a shopping mall, or a car dealership. I’m all for the easement. But Eva insisted I sit in. She wants me to totally agree this is the way Udderly should go.”

  For the rest of the drive to my parents’ Clemson home, our conversation covered benign topics: the weather in South Carolina during their absence, their visits with Dad’s old colleagues at Iowa State, new construction on campus.