The light flicked to green, and the Lincoln lurched ahead.
My delay in forward motion earned me a couple of rude honks, but allowed me to glimpse the license plate.
MCY 653.
Reverend Jim Bob’s car.
It could be no other.
So what was he doing in Addison at this hour?
Shouldn’t he be on the air, performing on his twenty-four-hour “live” ministry and spreading the gospel to bored cable viewers? Though I guess he taped the show or else he’d never have time to do anything else, such as preside over memorial services for people like Bud Hartman or attend board meetings and luncheons, much less spend time with Mrs. Jim Bob and the kids.
Or check into the Motel 6.
Because that’s where the Town Car was headed, turning right into the motel parking lot just before the jammed Midway intersection.
I couldn’t imagine the preacher having any reason to be there except for a tryst. And I had a feeling I knew who with. The lovably manic Julie Costello. Which would explain the tight purple dress she’d donned for her “prayer meeting.”
Adrenaline gushed through my veins.
This could be my chance to kill the proverbial two birds with one stone. Or at least stun them with a well-aimed breath mint.
Heck, it was worth a shot.
I tried to veer into the right lane, but it was too late to get over without causing an accident. I managed to squeeze the Jeep into the left turn lane at Midway, though waiting for the light to change was a killer. My fingers tapped an impatient beat on the wheel so fast the Goo Goo Dolls couldn’t begin to keep up. I switched off the radio and sighed until the green arrow appeared, and then I hightailed it back onto Belt Line, pulling another U-turn at Beltway.
It seemed an eternity had passed before I bumped the Wrangler into the motel’s parking lot, trying to spot Jim Bob’s white sedan to no avail.
I parked in front of the office doors and went inside, drumming up a story in my head as I approached the night clerk, a solid-looking Hispanic man who smiled politely.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
“Oh, gosh, I certainly hope so,” I told him, doing my best to appear frantic, turning my keys over in my hands and gulping in air like I couldn’t catch my breath. “It’s my father. I think he checked in just a few minutes ago. I have to see him. It’s an emergency.”
“Your father’s name?”
“Uh, geez, I’m not sure if he used his real name.” I was damned sure Jim Bob Barker had not registered as himself. Leaning over the counter, I whispered, “He’s with his tootsie, you know? He and my mother aren’t divorced yet, and he has to keep a low profile. Probably paid cash for the room.”
The smile disappeared, and the clerk peered at me with dark eyes that had probably seen this act before, though the script doubtless changed with each performance. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m not allowed to give out information on guests. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”
“Yes”—I looked at his nametag—“yes, Ronaldo, you can. Maybe this will help.” I worked a folded twenty-dollar bill from my change purse and slipped it out onto the desk. Oh, man, I was gonna be broke before the end of the week at this rate. “Just to jog your memory.” I winked at him, sly-like. “He drives a white Lincoln Town Car.” I rattled off the plate number for him, having it memorized by now. “He’s about six feet two, a hundred ninety pounds, salt-and-pepper hair.”
“The man who was just here?” His palm casually covered the bill. “The guy with the beard and mustache?”
A beard and mustache, huh?
So I wasn’t the only one playing dress-up.
“He has piercing blue eyes.”
I could tell by Ronaldo’s expression that he knew exactly who I was talking about.
“Sorry, ma’am, I still can’t help you. It’s against our policy.” He artfully slipped the hand with the twenty into his pants pocket.
Had I just been conned by a con?
What was the world coming to?
It left me no choice but to pull out the big guns.
I reached in my purse, wrapped my fingers around my Tic-Tacs, and withdrew them. I shook them noisily at him without letting him see the container. “My father needs his nitroglycerin, Ronaldo, or he might go into cardiac arrest. He has a horrible, horrible heart condition. Please, just tell me the room number, and I’ll take his pills to him.” I quickly shoved the breath mints back inside my purse. “You don’t want him going into heart failure after a night of passion with a woman who’s half his age, now do you? How would it look for a man to die at your motel because you prevented his own daughter from delivering his medication?”
Ronaldo’s eyes widened as I finished, and he glanced around the lobby. A couple who’d swept through the doors stopped and stared at us. I held my breath while Ronaldo glanced at some papers on the desk. “Larry Jones, room 145,” he said under his breath.
Larry Jones?
Wasn’t that the name of the guy in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, who’d been made the figurehead of ERA, Inc., the front for Jim Bob and Bud’s partnership? If I remembered correctly, Jones also happened to be Jim Bob’s brother-in-law.
Smooth, Rev.
“He wanted a room around the back.” Ronaldo swallowed. “Should I call 911 or anything?”
“No need.” I patted his hand. “I’ll take care of my dear daddy. That’s why I’m here.”
He nodded and mopped at the sweat on his brow.
When I got outside, I hesitated before climbing into the Jeep. My hands shook as I reached into my bag and pulled out the Tic-Tacs, shaking a couple in my mouth, not liking the bitter taste left behind from so many lies.
It almost scared me how good I’d gotten at telling them.
If I didn’t stop soon, I’d have to start wearing flame-retardant Levis.
My blood still buzzing, I climbed into the car and slowly drove around to the rear of the building, counting room numbers as I went until I saw the white Lincoln parked in front of 145. Beside it—surprise, surprise—was a little red Corvette. Julie must’ve driven in while I’d been at the front desk, pleading my case to Ronaldo.
I pulled the Jeep into a spot across the way, backing in beside a Dumpster. After I cut the engine, I sat there for a few minutes, staring at the drawn curtains in the window of the room where Jim Bob and Julie were holding their late-night Bible study—reenacting the scene from the Garden of Eden where Eve does a strip tease with a snake, no doubt—and I tried to come up with a plan. Only, I couldn’t think of anything. Nothing that made sense.
I just knew that I couldn’t fail Molly and David, even if it meant embarrassing myself by confronting the preacher and the cheerleader without cue cards.
As though wearing hot pants in public hadn’t killed any pride I had left.
For some reason, that made me feel calmer as I got out of my car and quietly closed the door. Before I approached their room, I made sure my cell phone was in my purse. Just in case I had to quickly dial 911.
I pounded with my fist until I heard Julie’s high-pitched voice yell, “Who the hell is it, for Christ’s sake?”
Now what kind of language was that for a prayer meeting?
“Room service!” I said the first thing that sprang to mind.
Did they even have room service at Motel 6?
I had no idea.
“We didn’t order anything!” she shouted back. “So scram!”
Nuts.
I drew in a deep breath, failed to come up with any alternative, and decided to be honest. It was a stretch.
“All right, it’s not room service, it’s me. Andrea.” I practically kissed the door, my mouth was so close to the wood. I tried to peer through the peephole, but it didn’t work in reverse. “I know you’re in there, Julie, and I know who you’re with. So please, open up or I’ll call Cinda Lou Mitchell on my cell and tell her to get her camera crew out here for an exclusive.”
Swift thinking, Kendricks, I thought, and pr
essed my ear to the door, picking up on some mumbling and then the noise of the locks being undone.
The door flew open, and Julie stood there in her purple dress, although her hair was mightily disheveled, her lipstick smeared around her mouth. Before I could utter so much as a “howdy-do,” she grabbed my arm and hauled me in.
“Hey . . .”
She pushed me inside and slammed the door.
I nearly tripped over the bed, dropping my purse onto the already-rumpled spread. I rubbed my arm as Julie reset the locks, and I decided she was a lot stronger than she looked. Did cheerleaders lift weights? I was willing to bet she could bench press me over her head.
But I had pepper spray, I reminded myself, reaching for my bag and jamming my hand in to locate the bottle. I palmed it, my finger on the trigger, concealing it against my thigh.
Quickly, I took in the small room around me, finding no sign of Reverend Jim Bob. Well, except his jacket hanging over the back of a chair. Then I realized the bathroom door was shut tight. God, don’t you love a man who hides in the toilet when trouble comes knocking?
Julie peered out the drapes, probably checking to see if I’d come alone.
Maybe I should’ve called Malone, caught him in his car before he’d gotten home.
Though he would’ve tried to talk me out of going there, wouldn’t he?
Not that it was the first stupid thing I’d ever done.
Julie spun around, blond locks flying, though a wisp of hair caught in the corner of her mouth as she hissed, “Shit, Andrea, what the crap do you think you’re doing? Did you follow us here from the church after the prayer meeting?”
Was she serious?
“What are you, like a stalker or something?”
I ignored her questions, posing one of my own. “Does Reverend Jim Bob check into the Motel 6 after prayer sessions with all of his flock or just with you?”
“You’re nuts,” she protested, but I shook my head.
“Save it. I saw his Lincoln outside.”
She crossed her arms forcefully and called over her shoulder. “You can come out of the bathroom, Jimmy.”
The door slowly creaked open, and Jim Bob peered out. He still had on the mustache and beard that Ronaldo had mentioned, and I noted a slight resemblance to Robert Goulet.
His eyes widened when he saw me. I’m sure he had no clue what I was doing there. In fact, I wasn’t so sure myself and was beginning to think this idea was more foolish by the minute.
“I told you she was acting pretty strange, Jimmy, and now she shows up at the motel.” Julie prattled on breathily, not hiding her distress. She had her hands balled into fists. “I shouldn’t have felt sorry for her. She was out to get us from the start. I should’ve known it.”
“Hush, baby, hush.” Jim Bob stepped to her side and set a hand on her shoulder. He looked at me, the fake mustache wiggling as he spoke. “You were at Bud’s memorial service.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been working at the restaurant since the murder.”
“Yes.” My heart was smacking so hard against my rib cage, it sounded like someone was hammering in my head. I wasn’t sure where this was going, but I had a vague notion.
“Are you a reporter?”
“No.” It was a relief to actually admit that.
Jim Bob studied me carefully, rubbing his chin, working the beard off in the process. I don’t think he even noticed. He came toward the bed, his long legs closing the space between us in a few strides. He reached out his hand. “I’d like to see your identification.”
“Good thinking, Jimmy,” Julie cooed, clasping her hands together. “She might be undercover.”
“Undercover? As in, police?” Peggy Martin had wondered the same thing, and it tickled me to even think I’d been mistaken for a cop. “C’mon, guys, get serious.” But serious is exactly how they looked. I wet my lips. “Listen, why doesn’t everyone have a seat so we can discuss this calmly,” I suggested, though neither jumped at the invitation.
“Give me your handbag,” the preacher demanded in that mesmerizing voice, the one that got little old ladies to mail him their Social Security checks without flinching.
“You want it? Come get it.”
I still had the pepper spray clutched at my side; but it was two against one, and I didn’t like the odds. Part of me was sure they wouldn’t harm a hair on my head, but the other part wasn’t convinced.
“Okay, take it.” I held out my purse with my free hand, and the Reverend Barker stepped forward and snatched it out of my grip. He ripped open the snap and fumbled inside its leather belly. He pulled out my cell phone first and tossed it on the dresser with a clunk that made me wince. Then he found my wallet, flipped it open, and began thumbing through its contents. He passed one of my business cards to Julie.
“Andrea Blevins Kendricks,” she read aloud. “ABK Graphics.” Her chin jerked up. “You film pornos?”
Yuck. “No, no. I’m a web designer.”
“So you do porno web sites?”
Was that interest in her eyes?
“I don’t do porn in any capacity,” I assured her. “Though I do pro bono work sometimes.” Which had her looking even more baffled. I half-expected her head to start spinning like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. “I design totally legitimate web sites,” I explained. “Like for charities and small businesses. And that has nothing to do with the reason I’ve been working at Jugs.”
“I don’t get it.” She pulled a few of my credit cards from their slots and tossed them at me. My Neiman Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue, and the platinum Master-Card and Visa. “Well, it hardly looks like you’re broke.” Angry red blotches stained her face. “What else did you lie about, huh? I’ll bet you’re not even pregnant. Probably never been divorced. Have you even waited tables before? Because you suck at it, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so.”
Geez, way to hurt my feelings.
“So I lied.” I shrugged, hardly wanting to defend myself to her. “But it was for a good cause.”
Molly, I nearly added, but didn’t want to drag her into this. Or maybe I was just afraid of Julie’s reaction.
“What cause? Like those Mothers Against Porn? Are you part of their operation . . . ?”
“No,” I interjected.
She shook a finger at me. “You want to tell us what’s really going on, or should we call the cops?”
“Go ahead,” I told her. “That’ll give me a chance to fill them in on you and Jim Bob.”
She laughed. “We’re not doing anything illegal, sugar. Immoral maybe, but that’s a different story. Can’t arrest us for what we do between the sheets.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Barker would beg to differ.”
Jim Bob frowned, obviously not finding that funny. “You’re the one who came barging in. Why don’t you tell us what you came for?”
He was right.
It was time to lay my cards on the table.
“I thought maybe we’d chat about ERA, Incorporated,” I said, watching Jim Bob’s eyes widen at the mention. “I’m sure the police would be interested in knowing why a TV preacher would own a restaurant like Jugs and have a jerk like Bud Hartman as his partner. I wouldn’t mind hearing that story myself.”
“How did you find out about ERA?” The preacher’s voice took on a frightened tone. Perspiration had loosened the gum on the mustache, and it hung cock-eyed over his lips. Every time he breathed, it danced. Not an attractive look for him.
“A friend of mine checked it out. A lawyer,” I said, figuring that would keep them in line. They wouldn’t hurt me—would they?—if they believed someone else knew what I knew. “He dug up info about the partner’s insurance, the ten million you’d get if anything happened to Bud. What I don’t understand is how you got tied up with him in the first place. Was it blackmail?” I inclined my head at the two of them. “Did he have photos of you and Julie? Is that why he was killed?”
“No, it was nothing like that!” Julie blur
ted out. “Bud and Jim Bob go way back,” she said, ignoring Jim Bob’s attempts to silence her. “They’re both from Magnolia, Arkansas. Jimmy used to own a bar called Hillbillies. Bud hung out a lot there after he got bounced from Texas Tech.”
Hillbillies, huh?
“The theme of the restaurant,” I voiced my thoughts aloud.
“It was years ago, before Jimmy got religion, sold the bar, left Arkansas, and made a new life for himself in Dallas.”
“Julie, please . . .”
But she didn’t heed his warning. “Bud tracked Jimmy down. His church was just starting up then, and Bud took advantage of that. He decided to settle in Dallas and open a restaurant. He got Jimmy to invest and called it ‘Jugs’ to remind Jimmy where they came from, of all the hell-raising they did together once. The drugs and the booze. All the women.”
The preacher turned away, shaking his head.
“Bud had photographs from those days. Bad ones.” She reached over to stroke Jim Bob’s arm, but he pulled away like she’d burned him. “Bud showed me a couple of them one night. They were in bed with a girl. Bud said she was thirteen. He called it a ‘hillbilly sandwich,’ if you know what I mean.”
“I get the picture.”
And it wasn’t pretty.
“Bud told me he had enough on Jim Bob to ruin his career. He had Jimmy running scared, thinking of his church and his TV show, everything he’d lose if word ever got out. All that money going down the tubes.”
Glug, glug.
Now that wasn’t hard to imagine.
It was mere embezzlement that had toppled Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker, and a single hooker had tarnished Jimmy Swaggert’s once-shiny image. Allegations of fraud had scattered Robert Tilton’s flock to the winds.
But a photo of Jim Bob and another man in bed with a teenaged girl?
He’d be lucky if his congregation stopped at tar and feathers.
“How much were you paying Bud?” I said to Jim Bob’s back.
He slowly turned around. “A hundred grand.”
“A year?”
Julie snorted, gazing at me as if I were an idiot. “No, silly. A hundred grand a month.”
My mouth fell open.
Bud Hartman had been bleeding Jim Bob out of nearly a million and a quarter annually? That was hardly pigeon feed.
Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery Page 21