“Edith Clemmons. She told me and the gals after the service that the police said they got a search warrant for Abby Lee’s house and The Poop Deck.” Edith was the one whose son worked for the police. Now why did that name ring a bell? The officer at the reunion who took Abby Lee in for questioning! He must be the one feeding his mom information.
I had to calm down in order to think straight. I let the questions fly. “What? Does Abby Lee know?”
Aunt Lula shook her head. “My sources didn’t say when the police were going to make their way over, but they’re doing it sometime today. I tried to go over to Abby Lee’s after the service, but she wasn’t home. I suspect she was at church as well.” Abby Lee and her mother were Episcopalian, so they didn’t attend the Catholic mass over at Our Lady of the Sea. “When I couldn’t find her, I came straight over here to tell you. What are we going to do?”
My mind went in a million directions. I had hoped that by now I’d have something to offer the police in terms of evidence, or at least be able to offer another theory or alternate motive. If the police were going to search Abby Lee’s house and place of business, they were looking for something specific. And if they found whatever they were looking for, she could be arrested.
I snapped out of my tequila hangover and went over to The Poop Deck. It was after eleven, and the early churchgoers were already headed to spread the local town gossip over bloody marys and crab legs. I figured Abby Lee would be at the restaurant after church, prepared to meet the morning brunch rush.
Just as I suspected, Abby Lee was prepping for brunch. I didn’t exactly intend to start the day by being the bearer of bad news, but hey, that’s what best friends were for, right?
“I skipped mass today, but still managed to catch the gospel according to Aunt Lula,” I said, half dragging her into the small office.
“What?”
“According to her sources, the police obtained search warrants for here and your house.”
Abby Lee slumped into the office chair. “What?”
I told her everything my aunt had managed to gather from Edith Clemmons. Which didn’t amount to much. “I don’t even know what it is they’re looking for. As far as I know, they don’t even know what kind of poison killed Harvey. This doesn’t look good.”
I knew I could trust Justin not to do something dishonest and plant evidence, but I didn’t trust the others. Especially Chief Poteet. As idealistic as our island beach town appeared, our police chief was as crooked as the criminals he pretended to protect the town from.
“At this point, it doesn’t seem like the odds are in my favor no matter what happens.” Abby Lee seemed resigned to the fact that all leads pointed to her. It was heartbreaking to watch the once bubbly former high school prom queen’s world fall apart.
“Is your mother at home?” I asked. I was sure the last thing Abby Lee wanted was to have to alert her mother that the police were about to search their home. Somehow, Abby Lee had managed to keep the issue of her being a prime suspect from her mother. It was now only a matter of time before her mother figured out just how much trouble Abby Lee was in.
Abby Lee shook her head. “It’s Sunday. She went over to her sister’s, Aunt Jean’s, in Port Arthur. She won’t be back until tomorrow.”
“Good. Hopefully they plan to execute the search today, before she gets back.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked as I pulled out my cell.
“I’m calling Justin. The least he could do is tell us where they’re searching first.”
After what seemed like a one-sided conversation, with me doing most of the yelling, I finally got Justin to tell me they were going to start with the house first. “I can’t keep you two from being there, but I really wish you’d just let us do our job,” he said over the phone.
Abby Lee and I arrived at her place just as Justin and the officers got there to begin their search.
“You can stay, but I will not have you interfering or asking questions,” Justin said the second we pulled up.
“Fine. But can you at least tell us what you’re looking for?” I asked.
“No interfering, Jules,” he warned.
We didn’t want to be asked to leave, so Abby Lee and I camped out in the kitchen while the officers conducted their search.
“What do you think they’re looking for?” Abby Lee asked.
I took the warrant Justin had handed her before searching the house and glanced at it. It was a blanket search warrant, which meant the police could search her home without specifying what they were looking for. I was shocked that a judge would sign off on something like that.
“I have no idea,” I answered. “Is there anything in the house that would implicate you in any way?”
“No. We got some old firearms from Daddy, but Harvey wasn’t shot, so I guess they’re not looking for those.”
A couple hours later, the officers left empty-handed. I breathed a sigh of relief. Now they were headed over to The Poop Deck to conduct a similar search.
“I’ll have to close the restaurant early,” Abby Lee said. “This is all so humiliating.”
“Don’t worry. They didn’t find anything here, and they certainly won’t find anything at the restaurant,” I said as we made our way out of the house.
Before we could make it to my truck, Justin pulled me aside. “I appreciate you wanting to help, but you need to trust me. I don’t like this any more than you do.”
“Then why are you doing this? You know she didn’t do it.”
“I wasn’t the one who made the call, but I still have to do my job.”
I shrugged, climbing into the driver’s seat of the Bronco. Abby Lee was already waiting in the passenger seat. “I’ll see you over at the restaurant.”
Like we had at her house, Abby Lee and I waited quietly as the officers took the restaurant apart, looking for anything that would directly link her to the murder. Only this time, we poured ourselves a glass of wine as we watched them go over the place with a fine-tooth comb.
Another two hours later, after an exhaustive search, the officers hadn’t found anything to connect Abby Lee to Harvey’s murder. Neither of us said a word to Justin as the police left the restaurant. And, to his credit, he didn’t bother to insult us with any lame apologies.
“I don’t know if I should be grateful or worried they didn’t find anything,” Abby Lee said after they left.
“Don’t think that way. The way I see it, you haven’t been arrested yet, so that’s good news. But just because they didn’t find what they were looking for doesn’t mean they’ll stop trying. We still have time to figure out who did this.”
She wiped the tears from her eyes and for a brief second looked hopeful. “What do you have in mind? We’ve tried everything with no luck.”
No, we hadn’t. “Sweetie, we’ve barely scratched the surface. Look, I have an idea. I just need to make some calls.” The wheels in my head were already in motion, and no sooner were the words out of my mouth than I had another idea.
A few phone calls later, I had my answer. With a little help from my friends in the Houston Field Office, I was able to find out the name of the assistant district attorney assigned to the Harvey Boyette case. Though, as it turned out, had I waited to watch the evening news like everyone else, I would have figured it out all on my own without the help of the feds. It seemed our little island hamlet was big news. Normally, prosecutors weren’t assigned cases until an actual arrest was made, but a case like this was a career builder. Sure, it wasn’t enough of a high-profile case to warrant national coverage on Fox News, but any murder trial could help jump-start a young ADA’s career.
“Julia, honey, turn that off. All that talk about the murder here in Trouble boils down to sensationalism. Our town does not need this kind of publicity,” Mom said. “You’d think with all those bombings and wars goi
ng on around the world they’d find something more newsworthy to report.”
No one ever dared argue with my mom when she was in one of her moods, so I turned off the television and headed upstairs to see what the online news sources were reporting.
I did a quick search, and according to the online news article, Hartley Crawford had been assigned the case. At this stage, he had elected not to respond to questions from reporters, but the network provided a nice head shot of the up-and-coming assistant district attorney. If he wasn’t prosecuting a case in which my best friend could very well be the defendant, I would have drooled—he was that good-looking. He was what Aunt Lula would call a prized stud.
So this is the guy who could ultimately be in charge of my friend’s fate, I thought. Now that I had more to go on, what was I going to do next?
I’d begun to daydream about the handsome attorney when Mom called up from downstairs. “Jules, you got a package! I think it’s flowers!” Under any normal circumstances, my mom would never yell—it wasn’t ladylike—but receiving flowers was cause for excitement. In her mind, flowers equated to a man—and a man equated to grandchildren.
Were they from James, pleading for me to come back home? Or maybe they were from Justin, as some sort of peace offering showing he realized I only had my friend’s best interest at heart, although I doubted it. During the time we dated, he never once splurged on flowers.
I ran down the stairs and took the rectangular box from my mother’s outstretched hands. I think she was more excited than I was.
“Well, open it,” she urged, anxiously waiting to see what my admirer sent.
I opened the box and moved the delicate tissue paper, only to reveal a box of black roses. I’d heard of black flowers before, a custom novelty variety that only goth chicks and serial killers would order, but who would send me these?
Mom frowned in confusion. “Is that a new trend? Black roses? I’ll never understand you young kids.”
Once the climactic letdown sunk in, she finally walked away, leaving me alone with the flowers, disinterested now that they weren’t the customary roses of the red variety. I dug around the box, mindful of the thorns, to look for a card. There, wedged between the tissue and the bottom of the box, was a small note, similar to the one I got when my Bronco’s windshield was bashed in:
Watch out.
With all the drama going on with Abby Lee, I had forgotten about the first note I’d received. And now here I was, standing in front of the kitchen counter with a box full of black roses—the proud recipient of a second warning. But who sent them? And more importantly, why? Was I getting close to finding the killer? No, that couldn’t be it. I wasn’t anywhere near figuring out who’d killed Harvey. That only left one other conclusion—the threats had nothing to do with the case. Then again, maybe I was close and didn’t know it yet.
It had to be about the murder, I ultimately decided. I had been in town less than two weeks; I hadn’t lived in Trouble long enough to have enemies. So if I were a logical person, which I liked to think I was, the simplest explanation made the most sense. The warnings had to be from Harvey’s killer.
There had to be something I was missing. Why else would a killer send me threats? Was there a clue I’d overlooked?
I immediately hopped into the Bronco and drove over to Aunt Lula’s to tell her about the threats. I told her about the broken windshield and the first note. Then I told her about the flowers and the warning I’d received.
“The killer sent you what?” Aunt Lula asked.
“We don’t know if it was the killer,” I said, even though I had already resigned myself to the fact that it probably was. “But I’m afraid you might be right.”
“Who else could it be? He knows we’re onto him, and he’s trying to scare you. That means we’re getting close!”
Even though I had already decided the person behind the threats had to be the killer, something about the threats nagged at me. The acts seemed so benign and juvenile—breaking a windshield, sending black flowers, leaving notes—but could Aunt Lula be right? I tried to ignore the obvious excitement in her voice, but were we really getting closer to figuring out who did it?
“How do we know it’s a he? It could be a woman,” I pointed out. I’d helped agents with many cases involving female offenders. I may have been brought up to be a fine, proper Southern lady, but I was still somewhat of a feminist—crime was an equal opportunity employer in my book.
Aunt Lula snickered. “You’re right. I’m not too old to believe women can’t do just about anything men can do.” In Aunt Lula’s world, women did most things better than men.
I frowned. If someone was trying to send me a warning, I needed to at least inform the police. In my experience, criminals could escalate from committing petty acts, like sending a box of dead roses, to more violent acts of aggression, like murder. I certainly didn’t want to be on the bad end of that continuum.
“Maybe I should call Justin,” I said, even though I was reluctant to rely on him for anything at this point.
Aunt Lula scoffed. “Then the deputy chief will know for sure we’ve been snooping around,” she said. “He’ll want to know why you’re receiving those ominous notes.”
For once, we were in agreement with each other. Approaching Justin with the threatening notes and flowers was out for the time being. In the end, we decided to hold off on reporting it until I received another one. If we got more evidence, I would turn everything in to Justin then.
“What did you do with the flowers?” Aunt Lula asked.
“I kept them just in case we needed them as evidence. The notes, too.”
Aunt Lula nodded. “Good thinking.”
I wasn’t entirely sure if she actually knew why it was a good idea, but she played along as if she were actively involved in a homicide investigation every other week.
As for me, I had full intentions of carrying out the plan I’d mentioned to Abby Lee earlier, but not before I paid a visit to Justin.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“What the hell was all that about?” I said, referring to the search warrants, as I stormed into Justin’s office at the station the next day. I had waited to cool off before confronting him, but it turned out I was still steaming.
“Shut the door,” he said.
I complied and slammed it for good measure. Yesterday, I had nothing to say to him regarding the search warrants for Abby Lee’s property, but today, I was more than happy to give him a piece of my mind.
“A blanket search warrant, really? Is that what this case has come down to?”
Justin avoided eye contact. “I told you already. I’m not the one who made the call on the search warrants. It was Chief Poteet. I may not agree with his methods, but I still had to do my job.”
It was pretty much what I had expected, but I was still mad at Justin. He could have given Abby Lee a heads-up. We didn’t have to hear it secondhand from Officer Clemmons’s mother via Aunt Lula.
“Did he even know what he expected to find?” I demanded.
“Look, I’m not even supposed to be discussing this with you, but you’re right. It was a wild-goose chase, and I warned the chief he was getting ahead of himself.”
“Why is he so determined that it’s her?”
Justin shifted in his seat. “I don’t know.”
I slumped into the chair across from his desk. “So what are you saying? He’s going to keep trying until eventually he convinces the entire department and this town that Abby Lee is guilty? What’s he going to do, plant evidence next time?”
He looked hurt, like I’d accused him of dishonorable conduct instead of the chief. “I’m taking care of it,” he said.
“It doesn’t look like it from here.”
“You’re going to have to trust me.”
“You keep saying that, yet I feel like I can’t,” I
said. “Am I wrong to think that?”
“I don’t know what else to say, Jules. You think this is easy for me? You think I come to work every day loving what I do? I’d be lying if I said I did. Sometimes I have to deal with the shit parts of the job, and right now, this is one of them.”
I rose from my chair, the matter obviously closed. I went in like a lion and out like a lamb, closing the door softly behind me.
The previous night, I had spent the entire evening racking my brain to figure out a way to gain access to the district attorney’s office. If I could somehow finagle a meeting with the ADA, perhaps I could persuade him to urge the Trouble Island Police Department to look for more leads before getting an arrest warrant. After the show they’d put on the day before, I was now more worried than ever about how they were handling the case.
The district attorney’s office was located right in the heart of the county seat. I knew it went against my better judgment to go to the district attorney’s office, but with Abby Lee’s livelihood at stake, I had nothing to lose. It was over an hour’s drive, but it was worth it if there was even a chance I’d get an audience with the hot ADA.
There had to be a way to reach him without marching into his office, unannounced, demanding to see him. There was a thing called professional courtesy within the criminal justice profession, but since I was investigating the crime on my own and not in an official capacity, I’d be laughed out of the office—or worse, it would get back to the bureau.
It was time to get creative.
I did what any girl would do to screen a potential date in this day and age. I went directly to Facebook—I had plenty of time for social media now—to see if Hartley Crawford had a page. And as luck would have it, he did. I quickly scanned his page for any information that could be useful: age, hobbies, relationships, and friends.
Hartley was thirty-five, Episcopalian, and a Republican. No surprises there. I already knew he was good-looking, but his photos reinforced his handsome features. He went to Yale Law School—impressive—and most importantly, he was single. That last fact was essential if I wanted my plan to work.
Destined for Trouble (A Jules Cannon Mystery Book 1) Page 11