Murder in the Smokies

by Paula Graves

  “Just being thorough,” Antoine added with a placid smile.

  “Okay.” Bramlett led them back inside and went behind the counter in search of paper and a pen. He jotted down a list of five names. “These guys do most of the driving, and they’re responsible for making sure the truck is cleaned and locked before they leave at night.”

  Ivy took the list. “Thank you, Mr. Bramlett.”

  “Glad to help.”

  “Are any of them here today?”

  “Gil Thomas and Jeff Plott will be in around ten today, and Kel Dollar’s off this morning but should be in by one. Shane McDowell is off today but comes in tomorrow, and Blake Corbin is on vacation until next week.”

  “We’ll be back around ten to talk to Thomas and Plott,” Ivy said.

  “I’ll make sure they’re around.”

  “Oh. One more thing,” Ivy said as Bramlett walked them to the door. “Do you cultivate belladonna here at the nursery?”

  Bramlett looked puzzled. “No. We don’t cultivate toxic medicinals. Too many liability issues.”

  “Okay, thanks again.”

  “You’re welcome.” Bramlett gave a little wave as they headed back to the department-issued Ford Taurus.

  Ivy handed Antoine the list of names. “See if we can get addresses and any background on any of these guys before we come back at ten.”

  “Maybe this is just a big ol’ red herring. Shouldn’t we start looking at other names on the list, too?”

  He was probably right. Nothing about Bramlett Nurseries had pinged her radar. Since they were doing busywork at the moment, routine stuff, there was no reason they couldn’t split up and get the job done twice as fast. “Tell you what. I’ll drop you off back at the station so you can start making phone calls. Set up some interviews with the people on the list. I’ll come back here and talk to the guys at the nursery, then we can regroup at the end of the day.”

  “Good idea. We should be able to get through this list in no time if we do it right.” Antoine had never been a big fan of down-and-dirty legwork. He liked the puzzle aspect of solving crimes, which made Ivy wonder why he’d stuck around Bitterwood rather than heading for a bigger city, where he’d get more chances to play Sherlock Holmes rather than Barney Fife.

  Maybe for the same reason she’d never left Bitterwood. Life in this sleepy mountain town, good or bad, was all she’d ever known. She knew who she was when she was here. She didn’t worry about who she could be.

  But maybe it was time she expanded her horizons. Maybe it was time to find out who she could be outside of Bitterwood, Tennessee.

  And how much of your newfound wanderlust, taunted an inner voice, comes from knowing that sooner or later, Sutton Calhoun’s going to dust this little town off his boots and never look back?

  * * *

  THE SOUND OF KEYS IN the door roused Sutton from a light slumber. He hadn’t bothered with the bed, since Ivy’s overstuffed sofa had looked too inviting to pass up, and it was a hell of a lot more comfortable than the hard sofas in the hospital waiting room.

  By the time Ivy entered, he was sitting up, shaking off the stupor of sleep. She stopped in the doorway with a soft gasp. “You scared me. What are you doing in here?”

  “Napping.”

  She looked at the sofa dubiously. “Isn’t it a little small for you?”

  He shook his head, stretching. “Just right.” He caught her gaze dropping to his midsection and looked down to see his T-shirt had slipped upward as he stretched, baring his stomach. Amused by catching her staring, he shot her a teasing smile and stood up, taking a deliberate step toward her. “You’re home awfully early in the day. Miss me that much?”

  Her cheeks turned deliciously pink. “J-just came to pick up some notes I left here.” She seemed to have trouble getting the words out past her suddenly tangled tongue. “I, um, I have to go do a couple of interviews soon—”

  Amazing, he thought, how the room could heat up so suddenly. He still wasn’t touching her, still stood a few feet away, too far from her to even feel the heat of her body radiating toward his, but he would swear he could hear her heart pounding from where he was.

  Or was that his own heart he was hearing?

  “I did miss you.” Her tone was soft. Helpless. He could tell she hadn’t meant to say the words, that making herself vulnerable to him with her confession scared the hell out of her.

  It scared him, too, because hearing her admission of need sent a wave of pleasure rocketing through him, as powerful as if she’d reached out and touched him.

  He wasn’t a man who felt things deeply. He didn’t let himself, preferring a hard-shelled cocoon of distance and solitude to keep him from getting hurt again. His memories of childhood all shared a common thread of pain, from losing his mother young to learning, revelation by revelation, just what it was his father did to keep food on the table and clothes on his back. He’d watched in silent agony as his friends and their families suffered from his father’s sins, hated but understood the inevitable distance that grew between them and him.

  Apple didn’t fall far from the tree, after all....

  “I missed you, too,” he admitted, closing the gap between them until he touched her, a light brush of his fingertips against her cheek. “Not just today, either. I missed you when I left. All the time.”

  She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. “I figured you’d forgotten me once you had Bitterwood in your rearview mirror.”

  “I tried. I guess eventually I sort of compartmentalized my life. You know, Bitterwood and everything that came after.” He cradled her face between his hands. “Why didn’t you tell me about Billy Turlow?”

  Her eyes widened, and she pulled away from his grasp. “Who?”

  “Seth told me about what Turlow did to you.”

  She wrapped her arms around her waist, turning her profile to him. “Don’t you mean what I did to Billy?”

  “Did he rape you?”

  She shot him a hard look that made his blood chill. “I never gave him a chance.”

  He nodded slowly. “Good.”

  “She wouldn’t believe me when I tried to warn her.” Ivy’s tough expression faltered, and she sank onto the arm of the sofa, hunched forward. “She thought I was making it up to break them up. I told her I wouldn’t lie about something like that, but she said I was just jealous of her attention.”

  “God.”

  “She just wanted to be happy. She always thinks when she meets a new man that this is the one who’s going to make her happy. But she looks for men in all the wrong places.”

  “What about after you stabbed him?”

  “Oh, she believed me then.” Ivy shot him a bleak smile. “Kind of hard to wish away the sight of your boyfriend in his jockey shorts lyin’ on the floor of your daughter’s bedroom with a steak knife sticking out of his ribs.”

  “How long was it?”

  Her eyes narrowed with confusion. “The knife?”

  “No. How long after I left town?”

  “Oh.” She looked down at her feet. “About five months. It was a few days after my sixteenth birthday.”

  He crossed in front of her, laying his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m so sorry.”

  She shook her head. “What could you have done to stop it?”

  “Maybe nothing.” He lifted her chin to make her look up at him. “But I’d have been there for you afterward, at least.”

  “It doesn’t matter now. It’s done. I’m long past it.”

  “Are you?” He ran his thumb along the curve of her jaw, noting with a combination of pleasure and fear how her eyelids fluttered shut in response. Pink color rose along her neck, flushed into her cheeks, and he knew she was as vulnerable to the combustive attraction betwee
n them as he was.

  He could hurt her so easily if he made a mistake.

  But could he give her the peace and happiness she deserved?

  “I’m not my father, Ivy—”

  Her eyes snapped up to meet his. “I never said you were.”

  “I’m not my father,” he repeated. “But I still have some of him in me. I don’t always think about how my actions affect other people. I think more about my feelings. How things affect me.”

  “Most people do.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you. Ever.”

  She held his gaze a moment, a thoughtful look in her dark eyes. Then she pulled away from him and moved to the window that looked out on the front yard. In profile, she looked more sad than conflicted.

  “You said you didn’t go to the prom. That was your choice, wasn’t it?” he asked, suddenly understanding why she was fighting so hard to keep him at arm’s length. “You don’t do relationships, right?”

  She didn’t turn her head. “Right. I date sometimes. I’m not a virgin. But I haven’t believed in fairy tales in a long time.”

  “Because of Billy Turlow?”

  She made a soft huff that might have been a laugh. “It didn’t take Billy Turlow to cure me of my romantic streak. People come. People go. That’s the way of things, more often than not.”

  He crossed to her side, tucking behind her ear a tendril of hair that had sneaked out of her ponytail. “You’re not your mama.”

  “Close enough. I have a bad habit of wanting things that aren’t good for me.”

  “Do I fall into that category?” He couldn’t blame her for thinking so.

  She looked up at him. “I don’t think you’re a grifter like Cleve, but you’re not going to stick around forever. Sooner or later, you’ll leave. You can be as honorable as they come and it doesn’t change anything. You already have one foot out of this town. And I’m planted here like a tree.”

  He smiled at the description. “Somebody’s got to stay around to make sure your mama doesn’t get into too much trouble.”

  “Bitterwood is her home. Hell, the town’s been trying to buy her land for a long time, but she won’t budge. She’s not going anywhere. And since I’m all she’s got—”

  He slid his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, pressing his lips against her forehead. It was meant to be a chaste expression of the friendship they’d once shared, but the feel of her body melting into his proved a potent reminder that he and Ivy Hawkins couldn’t be just friends anymore. And apparently, they couldn’t afford to be lovers, either.

  So where did that leave them?

  She pulled away from him. “I’ve got to talk to a man about a truck.”

  “Any new leads on that?”

  She shook her head. “It’s early yet.”

  He knew she wasn’t telling him everything she knew, but he didn’t fault her for it. She was walking a thin line between following Rayburn’s orders and her own instincts. He didn’t want to make things any harder for her.

  He walked with her out to the car, catching her hand as she reached to open the door. “I’m going to spend tonight at the hospital with Cleve. The doctor said it was okay, since he’s going to need help getting in and out of bed and going to the bathroom.”

  She squeezed his hand. “That’s going to be hard for you, isn’t it?”

  “I can’t get used to seeing him so helpless. He was always the most vibrant, self-possessed person I ever knew.” That zest for life had been part of the con man’s appeal. He could convince a catfish to buy a raincoat.

  “Maybe this will be good in the long run,” she suggested. “He’ll probably have to do some therapy on that broken arm, and didn’t you tell me it was the arm that’s mostly useless due to the stroke?”

  “So maybe he’ll get it right this time instead of being a stubborn cuss?”

  She squeezed his hand again before letting it go. “I’ve got to go.”

  He caught her chin in his palm and lifted her face, brushing his mouth to hers. Her lips clung for a moment, as if she wanted to prolong the kiss as much as he did. But she pulled away, ducking her head as she opened the car door and slid behind the wheel.

  “I guess I may not see you much after this.” She didn’t look at him, her gaze directed forward as if she had addressed the dashboard instead of him. There was a finality in her voice that he couldn’t pretend he didn’t hear.

  “I had to go, Ivy. If I’d stayed here any longer, it would have killed me. One way or another.”

  She nodded, still looking forward. “And I have to stay.”

  “I know.” He let the silence linger a moment, then added, “Take care of yourself.” He had no other argument to make. She was right. He’d be leaving soon, and she’d be staying, and neither one of them could do a damned thing about it. Prolonging their goodbye would only prolong the pain.

  “You take care of yourself, too,” she said, her profile frozen in place, as if any expression she might make would cause her to fall apart.

  He stepped back, letting her close the car door, and watched her drive away with his heart in his throat. He hadn’t managed much of a nap before she came home, and any chance of one now was gone. All that was left to do now was pack up the rest of his things and move on. As usual.

  Even if it felt like fifty kinds of wrong.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Any luck?”

  At the sound of the friendly male voice, Ivy looked up from her cell phone and saw Mark Bramlett standing in an open doorway, a nearly empty pot of coffee in one hand and a cup in the other.

  “I’m going to have to verify their alibis, but both of your employees have accounted for the days and times of the murders.”

  Bramlett smiled. “I could have told you that.” He nodded at the coffeepot in his hand. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Detective?”

  Considering how much her energy was starting to flag for so early in the day, a cup of coffee sounded like a brilliant idea. “Sure. And is there a room I can borrow while I make a few phone calls?”

  “You can do it right here in the break room. I’ve got to go load the truck for a delivery.” He led her into the break room and put a disposable cup in front of her. As he emptied the coffeepot into her cup, he added, “Are you planning to stick around to talk to Kel when he comes in after lunch?”

  “I need to make a few calls, and I may end up having to leave for a while,” she said. “But if I do, I’ll definitely be back this afternoon.”

  “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Two creams, one sugar.”

  He picked up her cup and crossed to the counter. She took another quick look at her list of messages, unsurprised but nevertheless disappointed that there was nothing from Sutton.

  What had she expected, a message begging her to give their relationship a chance? With a wry smile, she set her phone down and turned to accept the coffee from Bramlett. “Thanks.”

  “You let me know if you need anything.” With a small wave, he left the break room, closing the door behind him.

  Waiting for the coffee to cool, she called Antoine to check on his progress. He sounded a little out of breath when he answered.

  “I’ve never walked so many hills in my life,” he complained. “Next job I take, it’s going to be somewhere like Kansas. Nice and flat.”

  “Anything suspicious about any of the trucks?”

  “Well, half of ’em looked like they hadn’t been washed in years, so I don’t think they’re going to be our mystery trucks. I’m looking into the alibis on a couple that might fit the bill, but nothing about those truck operators struck me as particularly suspicious. Any luck at the nursery?”

  “Not yet. I’m going to make some calls from here, maybe stick around and talk to the
employee who’s coming in at one unless something comes up.”

  “All right. I’ll let you know if I come across anything on my end. You do the same?”

  “You bet.” Ivy hung up and pulled out her notepad to check her interview notes. Next call, Plott’s pastor, since Plott swore he’d been at church helping out on a mission project the night Amelia Sanderson was killed. But when she dialed the number he’d given her, she got a voice mail message informing her everyone was out to lunch. She left a message for the pastor to call her and picked up the cup of coffee, starting to take a sip.

  She paused just before the coffee touched her lips.

  Slowly, she lowered the cup back to the table and looked down at the milky-brown liquid. Two creams, one sugar, just as she’d requested. But had she actually watched Bramlett put the extras in her coffee?

  She looked behind her at the counter. Two torn individual creamer packets and a sugar packet ripped in two lay on the counter. She crossed to the counter to examine them, feeling ridiculously paranoid. But if their theory was correct, the person who’d killed their four victims had also planted the belladonna at the cemetery. And a single belladonna leaf contained enough poison to kill an adult human.

  How hard would it be to infuse a cup of coffee with crushed belladonna leaves? Or put a tasteless, colorless drug like Rohypnol in her drink while she had her back turned?

  She started to leave the cup of coffee where it sat, then thought better of it and poured the liquid down the drain of the break room sink. She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket, picked up the empty cup and pulled off the glove, letting it turn inside out and envelop the cup. After tying the wrist opening into a knot, she placed the cup into her purse and dropped back into the chair in front of the table, feeling equal parts stupid and relieved.

  A knock on the break room door made her jump. Mark Bramlett stood in the doorway, an apologetic smile on his face. “Sorry to interrupt, but I just came across something kind of strange on the underside of the truck. Would you come take a look and tell me if I’m just imagining things?”