by Nene Adams
“Or maybe it was a dream. I don’t know.”
“Tell me.”
Mackenzie related everything she could remember about Wyland leaving her to die, which wasn’t much. “I don’t believe he’d do something like that. Probably a hallucination. I saw Annabel too. She was crying and covered in blood.” Feeling a bubble of excitement rising inside her, she thought she had a piece of the puzzle figured out. “Listen, a while back, I was buying a sandwich from Miss Laverne and she was telling me about Annabel Cross.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Annabel appeared to me when Miss Laverne mentioned Isaac Rush.”
“Who?”
“The son of Pastor Rush, the old head of the First Baptist Church,” Mackenzie explained. “He went to jail for performing abortions in the late fifties.”
Veronica nodded. “And how does he connect to Annabel?”
Mackenzie went on to tell Veronica about the “woodshed”—the shack in the woods off the Jefferson Lowe expressway—and how Annabel had repeated Rush’s name there.
“Poor Annabel kept saying, ‘my boy, my boy,’” she finished. “If you add in Rush doing illegal abortions and that vision I had of Annabel with all the blood on her skirt and everywhere else, we can probably guess what happened.”
She waited for Veronica to exclaim she’d solved the mystery, but instead, the woman shook her head.
“Sorry, Mac, that dog don’t hunt,” Veronica said, giving her the sort of terribly kind, pitying smile a teacher might bestow on a dull student. “Annabel died of blunt force trauma. She didn’t bleed out after a botched medical procedure.”
“Damn it, I know that,” Mackenzie said, bristling. “But what if Annabel started to bleed later, after she’d gone home, and she panicked and arranged to meet Billy in the ‘woodshed?’ It’s plausible. How’s that dog hunting for you now, Ronnie?”
“It’s speculation, not evidence,” Veronica pointed out. “And who killed her? Billy?”
“He was there according to her.”
“What’s his motive?”
“It was the fifties. Maybe she threatened to go to her parents about the baby—”
“Or maybe it was someone else with a different motive. Speculation is fun, but we need solid facts, Mac. We need to follow the evidence, if we can find any.”
Annabel suddenly blazed to existence in front of them in all her silver-gray glory, her eyes glittering like shards of black, hateful ice. He did it, she whispered, her pale face distorted with rage. Killed me. My baby, my boy. Dead.
“Who, Annabel?” Veronica asked, scrambling to her feet. “Who killed you?”
Annabel screamed. The sound went on and on, rising in volume until Mackenzie feared the windows might break. When the freight train roar threatened to deafen her, the ghost winked out, the scream cut off and a loud crash reverberated through the apartment.
Mackenzie closed her eyes. Having Annabel around was bad for her nerves and her wallet. Please, don’t let it be the toilet, she pleaded internally. Having to trek down to her office every time she needed to pee would be inconvenient to say the least.
Veronica left the living room. When she returned, she reported that every mirror in the apartment had been shattered.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The next day, Mackenzie sat behind the computer in her office, trying to find the website of the city assessor’s office.
Though she hadn’t learned from Larkin what she’d hoped regarding Dearborn, an idea had nibbled at the edges of her mind after Veronica left and she went to bed last night.
If Dearborn didn’t have a personal reason to want Wyland’s church shut down, perhaps something else prompted him to put his support behind the ordinance. Larkin had told her Dearborn didn’t generally put himself forward in the city council unless his business interests were threatened. That bit of information could be the key.
After wasting time searching for a website, Mackenzie discovered the city’s public assessment records hadn’t been made available electronically yet. If she wanted to continue her research, she’d have to go to city hall and do it in person.
Her leg throbbed and ached like a rotten tooth. She didn’t relish the thought of walking over to city hall, but driving a few blocks seemed a waste of gas. Rather than go immediately or dose herself with pain meds that made her groggy, she opted to take care of her personal business first. Maybe later, her leg wouldn’t hurt so damned much.
She checked her inbox, finding mail from a few new clients as well as a message from Richard Chen, the Hong Kong art dealer. He had sent her the information that the ’31 Bugatti Kellner was in the hands of Sheik Ahmad Salar of Saudia Arabia.
Looking up background information on Salar, her heart sank to her toes. The man was an obsessive automobile collector. In her experience, such people rarely, if ever, sold pieces from their collection and Salar certainly didn’t need the money. If Forbes’ annual billionaires list was correct, Salar could wipe his ass daily on fistfuls of thousand-dollar bills for the rest of his life and still leave a mighty fortune to his heirs.
No million dollar bounty for me, damn it. She sent an email to her client in Abu Dhabi with the news. If he wanted her to open negotiations with Salar, she would, though privately she considered the Bugatti beyond anyone’s reach at this point.
Such terrible disappointment required soothing in the form of coffee.
Surrendering to necessity, she took half a pill to dull the edge of her pain before stepping out of the office and around the block to Mighty Jo Young’s.
“Hey, Kenzie,” Jo-Jo called from her place behind the monstrous espresso machine. Today, her lurid red curls were held back from her face by a floppy, candy-pink bow that bobbed each time she moved. The bow matched her dress, an A-line floral print covered with huge pink cabbage roses. “The usual?”
Mackenzie nodded and went up to the counter, bypassing the line and earning glares from other customers, which she ignored. “I’m about dead from caffeine deprivation,” she said. “Get me a cappuccino, STAT…please.”
Jo-Jo tamped espresso grounds into the filter, popped it into place and flicked the hot water knob while reaching for a milk pitcher. About a minute or so later, she slid a perfectly made cappuccino on the counter in front of Mackenzie.
“Beverage of the gods,” Mackenzie said, collecting her cup.
“Let me finish up here and I’ll join you at the table,” Jo-Jo said over her shoulder, already working on an order for a latte.
Mackenzie chose a table close to the front, just beating out a high school student of indeterminate sex juggling a laptop bag, messenger bag, several books, a stack of flyers, a tablet PC and an iPod. The student gave her the hairy eyeball and wandered off.
Jo-Jo bustled over, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “So how are you doing?” she asked, sliding into a seat.
“I’m getting there.” Mackenzie licked foam off her lips. She didn’t know what Jo-Jo put in the cappuccino, but it was the best in Mitford County, bar none.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to visit you in the hospital, honey,” Jo-Jo went on, looking somewhat shamefaced. Her bright pink lacquered fingernails picked at a nick in the tabletop. “I meant to go, but I had two baristas quit on me without notice and another had to switch to part-time. I’ve been run off my feet. By the time I had time, visiting hours were over. At least we talked on the phone. Did you get the flowers I sent?”
“Yes, they were lovely,” Mackenzie said, recalling the girlish bouquet of baby pink roses and daisies, so like the ultrafeminine Jo-Jo. “Really raised my spirits.”
Jo-Jo scoffed. “Girl, I know you like I made you. Tell the truth and shame the Devil.”
“The flowers were very pretty. Honest!”
“But pink’s not your thing. I know. I can’t help myself. Frilly stuff makes me drool.”
A barista walked rapidly toward them, set down a caffè Americano in front of Jo-Jo and whisked away just
as quickly.
Jo-Jo tasted her coffee and nodded. “Good. The boy can learn. Yesterday, his Americano was shocking, Kenzie. I nearly spit it out on the floor.” She glanced at a clock on the wall. “Goodness! Break’s over for me. Give me a hug, honey, so I have something nice to remember while I slave away to skin and bones over a steaming espresso machine.”
Mackenzie drank the dregs of her cappuccino and stood to be crushed against Jo-Jo’s vast, talcum powder and coffee-scented bosom. The lacy edge of Jo-Jo’s apron scratched her nose, but she would never complain.
“Next time, I want to hear all about you and Deputy Birdwell,” Jo-Jo said, holding her at arm’s length. “Don’t blush. I know you’ve been pining a while over her and I’m glad for both of you.” She beamed. “When’s the wedding? Can I be a bridesmaid?”
“For God’s sake, Jo!” Mackenzie protested, chuckling at her friend’s delight. “How the heck did you find out?”
“Honey, your mama told me the deputy hung around your hospital bed like a loyal puppy at her mistress’ feet. I’m just saying, it’s about damned time.”
“Don’t go too far. Ronnie and I are still sorting everything out. We haven’t even been on a real date yet.”
“Pooh,” said Jo-Jo, pursing her lips. “Y’all make a cute couple. Anyway, I want to hear all about it, but later.” She eyed the counter, nearly overwhelmed with customers, and made a face. “Right now, I’d better get back in there before the rest of my baristas quit.”
After a final promise to meet for lunch on the weekend, Jo-Jo returned to her work and Mackenzie to hers—namely, paying a visit to the city assessor’s office in city hall. Since the pill had kicked in, she felt able to walk the short distance.
The clerk was an elderly man with oiled gray hair and a nose like a cauliflower. Mr. Bryson didn’t look like much in his shabby suit, but there was nothing wrong with his mind. He didn’t consult the computer when she inquired about the ownership of parcels on the newly incorporated Sweetwater Hill, but nodded and came out from behind his desk.
“This way, miss,” he creaked in his dusty voice.
With shuffling steps, he led the way through a door and into a large room. The space was full of floor-to-ceiling shelves. Each shelf was loaded with boxes.
“We have records from as far back as the original Spanish settlement in the mid-sixteenth century,” Bryson went on, his voice hoarse and barely audible. “Sweetwater Hill, you said? Wait one moment.”
He shuffled away and returned several minutes later carrying a box, which he put on a small table. “Now, miss, here’s the rules: you can look at the records, but they can’t leave this room. If you want to make copies on the machine downstairs, I’ll do it for you and it’ll cost fifty cents a sheet. If you don’t find what you’re looking for, come get me. Don’t return the box to a shelf and don’t touch any of the other boxes.” He waited for her reply, staring at her with a sharp brown eye. The other was clouded and milky with a cataract.
“Yes, Mr. Bryson, I understand,” Mackenzie said. “Do you mind if I take pictures of the pages with my cell phone?”
He didn’t answer, but turned his back and began shuffling out of the room. She took his dismissive wave as permission.
Taking a seat on an uncomfortable metal chair and elevating her bad leg on another, she removed the lid from the box, took out a file and began to read, snapping pictures with her cell phone of crucial data like legal descriptions of property, parcel numbers and other information.
Several hours later, Mackenzie returned the last file to the box and stuck her cell phone in the pocket of her jeans. She still didn’t know who owned the parcels of land on Sweetwater Hill, but she’d found what she needed to further her search.
She left the room to talk to Bryson.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Excuse me, sir,” Mackenzie said, walking to the desk where Bryson sat reading a newspaper. “Where can I find deed records?”
“Mitford County Register of Deeds,” he said, “which ain’t here.”
“Where is it?”
“Downtown Laxahatchee City.”
She swallowed a groan. A trip to Laxahatchee City would only take a half hour, but the downtown area was a maze of one-way streets and confusing parking zones that seemed to change hourly. Few non-natives escaped without at least one violation.
The last time she’d had to visit Laxahatchee City, it had cost her two hundred and eighty bucks in parking tickets, her car had been towed, requiring another four hundred to get it out of the impound yard, and she’d been given a further citation for speeding when she left town.
Bryson wheezed. It took her a moment to realize he was laughing. “You look like you’ve been sucking lemons, miss,” he said. “If you don’t want to make the trip, you can order a copy of recorded deeds for a dollar a page.”
“From you?”
“No, the Internet. Takes two weeks, if you’re lucky.”
“Do you know any way I can expedite things?” Mackenzie asked with faint hope.
Bryson regarded her with his bird bright eye. “Maybe,” he said.
“And how could I do that, sir?” she asked, leaning an elbow on the counter. She recognized a man willing to make a deal, or at least open negotiations. The trick was to avoid any overt offers and take her cue from his opening move.
“Well, as it happens, as chief clerk of the city assessor’s office, I have access to county deed records right here.” He jabbed a thumb at his computer.
Mackenzie nodded. “And would you be willing to look up the records for me?”
He rubbed his stubbly chin. “Maybe I could.” He smiled. “For two dollars a page.”
Petty larceny at its pettiest, she thought, but worth the expense. Mackenzie took out her cell phone. “Deal. I’ll give you the liber and page numbers, you print out the deeds.”
The documents, run off on the office’s cheap printer, were good enough for her needs. When Bryson added the last deed to the stack on his desk, she ran through the pages twice to be sure she had everything, and reached for her wallet.
He watched her count out the fee with poorly disguised greed.
“That’s fifty dollars,” she said, handing him two twenties and ten one-dollar bills.
Wordlessly, Bryson accepted the money and gave her an empty manila file folder.
Mackenzie put the sheets in the folder, thanked him and left the office.
Returning home, she sorted through the deeds. The result of her study was unexpected, though not exactly surprising. It seemed Jacob Dearborn owned almost the entirety of Sweetwater Hill apart from two parcels, both belonging to Wilson Wyland.
She didn’t bother sorting through the entire history of the parcels, but picked up her cell phone and dialed James Larkin. “Hey Jack, I came across something interesting today,” she told him when he answered the call.
“Can it wait? I’m up to my ass in alligators, Kenzie,” he said, sounding distracted.
“Do you think the Antioch Bee might be interested in running a story about corruption on the city council?” Mackenzie asked.
The line went silent. At last, Larkin asked, “Are you sure? I mean, are you absolutely sure?” in a slow, deliberate way that left no doubt she had his undivided attention.
“I’m not a hundred percent sure, which is why I need your help.”
After another long pause, he sighed. “Okay, tell you what…come over to the newspaper and we’ll talk. I can’t leave right now and I promised Esme I’d come home at a Christian hour, so take it or leave it.”
“I’ll meet you in ten minutes.” Mackenzie ended the call.
As she left the apartment, the downstairs door opened to admit a uniform-clad Veronica, who glanced up at her. “Hey, Mac, I was coming to see you.”
“I’m on my way out, Ronnie. I’ve got a meeting with Jack.” Mackenzie paused and really looked at Veronica. Even the awful deputy’s uniform couldn’t hide the woman’s prettiness. She groan
ed internally. This romance of theirs was going nowhere fast, but pain and opiates had struck her libido dead for the moment. She hoped Veronica still wanted her, because when she felt better, there would be naked happy time. Swear to God.
“Little Jack Larkin at the Bee? I thought he already interviewed you,” Veronica said, pushing her hat back from her brow.
“He did. This is for something else.”
Veronica waited for her at the bottom of the steps. “Anything I can do?”
Mackenzie shook her head. “Not unless you can pick me up and carry me to the newspaper. My pain pill’s doing its best, but I’m starting to feel it.” She kept a tight hold on the banister as she walked down step by step on her stiff leg.
“Want a ride in the patrol car? I can run and go get it,” Veronica offered, holding the door open and letting her pass outside.
“The newspaper’s not that far.” Mackenzie took Veronica’s offered arm and started in the direction of the Antioch Bee. “Do you know anything about Jacob Dearborn?”
“Apart from the complaint he tried to file against you?”
“What?”
Veronica nodded. “He came into the station the other day claiming you were harassing a high school student, Kelly Collier. But Miss Collier is eighteen years old. If she wants a complaint filed, she needs to do it herself, as I told Mr. Dearborn. I also advised him that making slanderous statements to an officer of the law wasn’t a very bright move.”
Fuming, Mackenzie said, “I’d like to wring the old bastard’s neck.”
“Don’t make threats, Mac. Did anything happen between you two I should know about?” Veronica asked mildly, but the question rubbed Mackenzie the wrong way.
Her temper flared. Was Veronica insinuating something improper had occurred with her and Kelly Collier? Recalling Dearborn’s threat to make trouble for her on the day she visited him at home, the question from Veronica seemed like an insult. “You too?” she asked, wrenching her arm away. “Do I need a lawyer before I answer?”
“Take it easy, Mac,” Veronica said, giving her a concerned look. “If there’s a situation between you and Dearborn, I want to help. Or don’t you trust me?”