Murder in the Smokies

by Paula Graves

  She grabbed her threadbare robe and wrapped it around herself before she ventured down the hall to the spare room. She paused for a moment, listening for any sounds from within.

  Suddenly, the door whipped open and Sutton almost walked right into her. She stumbled backward in surprise, bumping her head hard against the wall across the hall. “Ow.”

  His look of surprise settled into mild concern. “You okay?”

  She rubbed the aching spot on the back of her head. “Yeah, you just surprised me. Do you need something?”

  “Just a glass of water.” His expression was a neutral mask, impossible to read. She didn’t know if he was telling the truth or hiding something—by design, she suspected. Her gaze wandered down to his bare chest, and all thoughts of truth or secrets flew out of her head for a long, heart-fluttering moment.

  Since when was she so vulnerable to lean-muscled pecs and a flat, well-defined belly?

  Since Sutton Calhoun brought his bad-boy self into your house, reminding you of how it feels to be fifteen and madly in love with the juiciest piece of forbidden fruit to ever grow in Bitterwood, Tennessee.

  “What were you doing outside my door?” he asked when she didn’t say anything else.

  She jerked her attention back to the case. “I was looking through the case files on the murders, actually,” she said, nodding her head toward the kitchen. She walked with him down the short corridor into the kitchen, pointing him to the water glasses over the stove. “I came across something I’d missed before.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Two of the victims worked at the same place, as it turns out.” She started to tell him about Davenport Trucking, then remembered Captain Rayburn’s warning not to try to bring Sutton into the investigation. She was going to be in enough trouble as it was, once the captain heard about her Clingmans Dome adventure. Better keep the details to herself for now. “Anyway, I was wondering if maybe April Billings’s brother had mentioned whether she’d taken a temporary job this summer while she was home from college.”

  Sutton turned away from the refrigerator, withdrawing his glass from the water dispenser in the door. He took a long drink of water, then shook his head. “Stephen didn’t mention a job. I can ask.”

  “Thanks, I’d appreciate it. It may be nothing—this is a small rural area with limited job opportunities. Still, it’s curious.”

  “Yeah.” He drained his glass of water and put it in the sink. “I’ve got another lead to follow tomorrow, but I’ll give Mr. Billings a call and let you know.”

  She walked with him to the spare room. “Another lead?”

  “May be nothing. I want to follow it through before I say one way or another.” He paused in the open doorway. “Get some sleep, Detective. You look beat.” He closed the door behind him.

  She stared at the solid rectangle of wood, releasing a sigh. Great. While she’d spent the past few minutes trying not to salivate over his bare chest, he thought she looked beat.

  Nothing quite like abject humiliation at—she checked her watch—twelve twenty-five in the morning.

  * * *

  SUTTON HADN’T EXPECTED to sleep that night, but he must have drifted off at some point, because the next time he opened his eyes, his room was bright with morning sunlight. He glanced at his watch lying on the bedside table. Already after eight. He’d overslept.

  Tugging his dirty jeans on, he checked the house and found a note from Ivy written on the back of a business card she’d pinned to the refrigerator with a black bear magnet. “Gone to work. Help yourself to eggs or anything else you want for breakfast.”

  Finding the coffeemaker on the counter next to the stove, he made himself a couple of cups of strong black coffee and cracked a couple of eggs into a skillet for an omelet. A shower and shave later, he dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and set out in the Ford Ranger for Maryville, the small city about twenty minutes southwest of Bitterwood. He’d looked up the address for Davenport Trucking on his phone and arrived on West Sperry Road to find the trucking company was a sprawling warehouse-style office complex in the middle of an otherwise rural area just outside the city. From the parking lot, the rounded peaks of Chilhowee Mountain formed a velvety blue horizon to the east.

  Sutton stood by his truck for a moment, gazing at the mountains, struck by a powerful ache that settled in the middle of his chest. He hadn’t called Bitterwood home in years, but the Smokies still had the power to steal his breath with their sheer blue beauty.

  He dragged his gaze away and crossed the parking lot to the glass door marked Main Office. As he entered, a bell on the door clattered overhead. A slim black woman in her thirties looked up and smiled. “Can I help you?”

  Before he could answer, the bell rang over the door behind him. He turned at the sound, his eyes widening at the sight of the newcomer.

  Ivy Hawkins stood in the doorway, staring at him. Her expression shifted from surprise to suspicion, her dark eyes snapping. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Chapter Seven

  It took a second for Sutton to school his features into his customary inscrutable mask, but it was enough. Ivy saw a ripple of guilt pass over his face before he shuttered his expression. At the same time, he seemed genuinely surprised to see her here.

  “I came to look up an old friend,” he answered, his voice carefully void of inflection.

  “Yeah? What old friend?”

  She noted the slight tightening of his mouth before he answered. “Seth Hammond. His sister said he’s working here now.”

  Since when was Seth Hammond a friend? Sure, Sutton and Seth had been tight as ticks when they were boys, but by the time Sutton shook the dust of Bitterwood off his boots, he and Seth had been enemies.

  “Why are you here?” Sutton asked.

  “Following up a lead.”

  “This is the company you were talking about.” Sutton’s brow furrowed.

  “Coincidence, huh?”

  He looked a little defensive. “Yeah, definitely a coincidence.”

  “You’re looking for Seth Hammond?” the receptionist behind the desk interrupted. “He’s probably out in the fleet garage. Third building on the right.”

  “Thanks.” Sutton turned back to Ivy. “I’ll head on out there now.”

  “Wait.” Ivy caught his arm as he started to pass her.

  He gazed down at her with hazel-eyed intensity that made her insides tremble. “Yeah?”

  “Seth Hammond works here?”

  “Looks like.”

  “When did you find that out? I thought you didn’t know where he was anymore.”

  “I talked to his sister last night and she mentioned he was living here in Maryville now, working for Davenport Trucking. I thought I should drop by and say hello, see if he’s really on the straight and narrow this time. For Delilah’s sake.” He cocked his head slightly. “What’s your lead?”

  She was tempted to tell him, if for no other reason than to make sure she wasn’t simply grasping at straws about the Davenport connection. But she couldn’t just go around spilling all her operational secrets to virtual strangers, no matter how good her memories were—or how damned hot he looked in a pair of jeans. “I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

  He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

  She softened her tone. “Did you find anything to eat this morning?”

  He smiled. “I might have raided your egg bin for an omelet.”

  She smiled back. “Feel free to raid the rest of the fridge for lunch if you like.”

  “Actually, I was thinking about grabbing something at J.T.’s Barbecue on my way back to Bitterwood,” he said. “Think you’ll be finished here by lunchtime?”

  “Probably.”

  “Why don’t I hang around then?” he suggested. “We can grab
lunch together.”

  “Okay,” she agreed, trying not to grin like an idiot. She watched him leave, her gaze dropping helplessly to his denim-clad backside.

  Behind her, the receptionist let out a deep sigh. “That man sure can wear the hell out of a pair of jeans.”

  Ivy turned to look at the receptionist, biting back a grin. She crossed to the desk and flashed her shield. “I’m Ivy Hawkins with the Bitterwood Police Department. I have some questions about a couple of former employees. Who do I talk to?”

  * * *

  THE MAINTENANCE GARAGE two doors down from the main office turned out to be an enormous one-story building with tall retractable doors built in to accommodate a variety of trucks, from local delivery box vans to large eighteen-wheel big rigs.

  When Sutton entered the garage, only four trucks were parked inside, two big rigs with full trailers, a large box truck with a local moving company’s logo painted on the sides and a black panel van. A lone man occupied the space, holding a heavy-duty hose with a nozzle attachment at the end. Spray shot from the hose and hit the panel van’s wheels with a loud splatter, the whoosh drowning out all but the faintest sound of the tune he was whistling. Water ran in a stream past Sutton’s feet, rusty with red clay from the van’s tires. He avoided the flow and crossed the garage to the man holding the hose.

  He was wiry, hard-muscled but whipcord lean, with short, dark hair that tended to spike on top and sharply defined features that gave him a faintly vulpine appearance. His green eyes swept up to meet Sutton’s gaze, and a slow, cynical smile curved his wide mouth.

  He turned off the hose. The garage fell silent for a moment. Then the man spoke in a deceptively soft drawl. “Sutton Calhoun. Never thought I’d see you ’round these parts again.”

  “Really, Seth? That’s how you want to play this?”

  Seth Hammond’s left eyebrow twitched. “What are you talking about?”

  So innocent. If Sutton didn’t know better, he might believe that Seth really was clueless.

  But he had proof otherwise. Dipping his hand in the right front pocket of his jeans, he pulled out the green marble and held it up so that it caught a shaft of light pouring into the garage from a window high above the floor.

  Seth’s gaze followed the movement of Sutton’s hand. His eyes narrowed before his gaze dropped to meet Sutton’s.

  “What’s your game, Seth? Why leave this for me?”

  Seth remained silent, pinning Sutton with his unnerving stare.

  “Thanks for the marble. I’ve kind of missed it.” Sutton pocketed the marble and started to walk away.

  “Wait,” Seth said, his voice tense.

  Sutton turned slowly to face the other man, waiting silently.

  “April Billings worked here until July. Part-time internship.”

  “Doing what?”

  “A little of everything, although her main job was helping out the bookkeeping staff.”

  “She quit in July?”

  “Wanted a month off just to enjoy herself before going back to college in the fall.” Seth’s tone held a hint of sadness. But he was a good actor. Hard to know if his show of emotion was authentic.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I hear you’re looking into her murder. And since two other former Davenport employees have also turned up dead—”

  “And look who works here.”

  Seth’s expression darkened. “You’re not seriously going there.”

  “Even serial killers sometimes start small.”

  “Yeah, torturing animals, not pulling cons.”

  “A con artist is just a sociopath who kills the soul instead of the body.”

  Seth shook his head. “Well, maybe that’s so. And if you’re looking for a serial soul killer, feel free to take me in for questioning.”

  “You’re mistaking me for the police.”

  “That’s right.” The smile Seth shot Sutton looked more like a smirk. “You’re working for the big chief Cooper down there in Alabama.”

  “Did you call your sister so I’d know where to find you?”

  Seth smiled. “You’re just full of conspiracy theories today.”

  “How did you know to find me at Ivy Hawkins’s place?” Sutton pulled the marble from his pocket again. “I can’t believe you still had this after all those years, Seth. Never took you for the sentimental type.”

  “Ivy Hawkins’s place?” Seth looked surprised. Sutton didn’t buy it for a second. “You’re in town a day and you’re already shacking up? And with the police, of all people.”

  “Who told you I was back in Bitterwood?”

  Seth laughed, giving up the pretense. “A Calhoun can’t come back to Bitterwood without the whole damn county hearing about it, Sutton. You should know that.”

  “Why’d you leave this marble for me at Ivy Hawkins’s place?”

  Seth didn’t answer.

  “It was you outside her house last night. What did you do, follow us from the motel? Or were you out there at Clingmans Dome?”

  Seth’s neutral expression slipped a moment, betraying a hint of confusion in his green eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Which part? The motel? Or the mountain?”

  “I went looking for you at the motel,” he said finally. “You know, for old times’ sake. Saw you with the little lady cop so I decided to bide my time before making contact.” His drawl broadened. “Don’t know if you know this, Sutton, but I’m not real popular with the police around these parts.”

  “You couldn’t wait until morning to get in touch with me?”

  Seth’s mouth curved slightly. “I figured you wouldn’t care to see me if it wasn’t your own idea.”

  “So you set me up to come looking for you?”

  “And it worked.”

  Seth Hammond always had been too damned wily for his own good. If he’d just use some of his native intelligence for good reasons instead of bad, no telling what he could accomplish.

  “What do you really want, Seth?”

  “I told you what I wanted. I told you about April Billings.”

  “So three of the four women killed worked here in the past few years. Thanks for sharing.”

  “Don’t you think that’s strange?” Seth asked. “Three dead women who worked at the same place? Wouldn’t you call that a significant connection between the victims?”

  “You seem awfully interested in this case.”

  Seth looked injured. Sutton wasn’t sure if the expression was real or carefully calculated. With Seth, you never knew. “People around here are wondering if someone’s targeting the Davenports. Folks are worried about working here, especially the women.”

  “Are they right?” Sutton asked carefully. “Should people be worried about working here?”

  “I don’t know,” Seth answered. “But I’d sure like to find out.”

  * * *

  “I’D HAVE TO GO THROUGH all of our files to be sure, but I don’t remember anyone here ever renting a truck to Marjorie Kenner.” George Davenport looked at Ivy with apology in his blue eyes. He started walking toward the front door, leaving her little choice but to follow.

  “Will you check for me?” she asked, trying to keep her tone polite and friendly rather than commanding, not so much because she thought honey would get her further than vinegar but because he looked too tired and wan to make forcefulness seem wise.

  If she had to guess, she’d say Mr. Davenport was chronically ill these days. He had the thin, sallow look of someone who had lost a significant amount of weight in a short span of time. Heart trouble? Cancer? Either was possible, she supposed. He wasn’t well, but to his credit, he walked at a brisk enough pace that she had to move at a clip to keep up.

&n
bsp; “I’ll check,” he agreed, shielding his eyes with one hand as a truck turned into the parking lot and swung around to one side of the lot, where there was a large open bay with a large tank, a hose and what looked like a large manhole. As they both watched, the driver pulled up in front of the manhole and got out of the truck. He circled to the back and bent to pull up the manhole cover. The cover must not have been heavy, since he lifted it with little trouble and set it aside.

  Turning to the truck, he opened the back doors wide and stepped back quickly. Muddy water spilled out of the back of the truck, and Ivy realized the bay was built at a slight incline to tilt downward toward the drain.

  Mr. Davenport must have noticed her interest. “That’s our cleaning bay. We get farmers who rent trucks to take chickens and pigs to the butcher, and folks like Stan Thomas there who rent trucks to carry live fish in aerated tanks to restaurants that want their fish to be as fresh as possible. Those kinds of transport jobs can get messy, and I’ve found that everyone benefits if we offer a discount to the renters to muck out the trucks themselves before we do the final sanitation.”

  If the muddy water were red instead of brown, Ivy thought, it would be easy to imagine the back of the truck as the scene of a bloody murder. “Do you supervise the initial cleanings?” she asked.

  “No. We don’t have the time or personnel for that. And if our cleaners go in and we can document that the renter did a slapdash job, we’ll cut the amount of the discount. Renters know that, so they usually do a good job.”

  “Is the lot open at night?”

  Davenport slanted a curious look at her. “The warehouse is locked up tight, but no, we don’t lock up the parking area or the cleaning bay.”

  “So, theoretically, anyone could clean out their truck after hours?”

  “Well, not anyone. You could drain stuff out, I suppose, but the only way you can get the washing equipment to work is to have the keycard for the water unit.” Davenport nodded toward Stan Thomas, who had just pulled something from his pocket and ran it down a slot set into the side of the large tank. He pressed a trigger on the hose nozzle and water shot out and hit the inside of the truck with a thump. “You turn in the keycard with the truck. The water can be heated to a high enough temperature to meet sanitation requirements.”