T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 02 - Southern Poison

by T. Lynn Ocean

  Into my ninth or tenth morning on duty, I sat on a stool inside Mama Jean’s truck, skimming the newspaper, when John’s sedan pulled in. He is the AJAT contractor who heads up day-to-day security at MOTSU, but unlike the gate guards, he doesn’t wear a uniform and looks pretty darn good in a white button-down and tie.

  “Hey, Jill,” he called through the serving window. “You still doing two-for-one biscuits? If so, I’ll take a couple of sausage.”

  I guessed him to be in his late forties, even though a muscular body and entirely flat stomach made him appear younger. He’d passed Ashton’s background check and hadn’t been identified as anything other than what he appeared to be. Still, since he was in a position to oversee the movement of shipments through Sunny Point, I’d been paying him special attention in hopes of learning something that resembled a clue.

  “For you? Sure.” I pulled out two precooked frozen sausage patties and tossed them on the grill. “What are you up to today?”

  “The usual. Shipments come and shipments go. I keep everything secure during the process.”

  “Drinking coffee this morning?” I asked and shifted into wide-eyed, admiring bimbette mode.

  “Please.”

  I served his coffee and added three creamers, just like he drank it. “You make your job sound so easy. But it must be high pressure. I mean, it’s a lot of responsibility, right?”

  He grinned. “Somebody’s got to do it.”

  The sausage patties started to sizzle so I flipped them and dropped a few biscuits into the steamer. Twelve seconds later a sounder buzzed. I removed the biscuits, added the sausage, and stuck each in a foil wrapper.

  I punched some numbers into the cash register. “That’s three dollars and eighty-five cents.”

  He produced a five and told me to keep the change.

  I gave him my earnest smile. “Thanks.”

  “Why don’t you come out here and sit with me for a minute while I eat?”

  I’d added four folding plastic chairs to the roach coach supplies, and set them up outside Mama Jean’s truck every morning, along with a small plastic table that was perfect for setting drinks on.

  “Sure,” I agreed. It was nearing time for me to close, so there probably wouldn’t be any additional sales for the day.

  We discussed the hot temperatures, last weekend’s king mackerel fishing tournament, and a newspaper article about the expanded walking paths at Orton Plantation and Gardens. He finished his second biscuit before broaching the subject of me.

  “So tell me, Jill, I’m curious.” He blew on his coffee before sipping it and I noticed that he was missing part of his ring finger, enough to make it shorter than his pinky. “How did you end up working for Mama Jean?”

  I’d already been asked the same question several times. “I heard about the job through a temp agency and the hours are perfect for me. I serve a few biscuits, muffins, and coffee and then I’ve got the rest of the day off to do whatever I want. I paint, for example. Nothing I’d show anybody, but I enjoy throwing some oil colors on a canvas.”

  “You’re an artist, then. But working for Mama Jean can’t pay all that well.”

  “Pays enough for me. Besides, I don’t want a real job. If I had one of those, I’d have to actually work.” I made an icky face. “Yuk.”

  He laughed, sipped more coffee. “You’re a lot of fun, Jill. What say we meet for a drink this evening, after I finish my shift? Nothing fancy. Just a cocktail and a snack somewhere.”

  “Sure.” There could be worse things than having a drink with an athletic and charming fellow. Plus, if I could get a few drinks in him, I might learn something useful. I gave him the mobile number that Ashton had issued me. It rang into a nifty slim camera phone, which also served as a GPS tracking device so that SWEET could keep up with me. Of course, it only worked if the phone was powered on.

  Nobody else stopped for food or coffee so I closed up shop and headed to the warehouse where I kept the truck parked. The day hadn’t yet warmed up to hot status, so I drove home from the warehouse in my X5 with all the windows down and sunroof open, thoroughly enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. My light mood dissipated when I arrived at the Block to find Ashton. It was probably not good news.

  “Mama Jean is dead,” he said. “Her neighbor found her on the sofa, unresponsive. Cause of death not yet known, but it doesn’t appear to be a homicide.”

  I retrieved a couple bottled waters and joined him at a table. “You believe that?”

  “I just saw her yesterday to give her your week’s deposit. She was perfectly fine then. Almost bubbly. Told me that she felt great and had even stopped taking the prescribed painkillers.”

  “What’s your take?”

  He grimaced. “Something isn’t right. Far as Mama Jean knew, I own a temp agency and provided you to work the truck. She was thrilled with everything, especially the fact that I would personally drop by once a week to bring her money. Oh, she also said that you’ve increased breakfast sales thirty percent and that I should give you a raise.”

  My shoulders went up. “Can’t argue with that.”

  “Mentioned that she earned thirty-five to forty dollars a day in her tip jar, between breakfast and lunch. Said you were probably making twenty a day, just doing breakfast.” His head cocked slightly and he squinted at me through raised eyebrows.

  “There’s a tip jar?” I said.

  The brows went down and he shook his head. “Is there a chance that your cover has been compromised?”

  “I don’t see how.” I’d been careful and always made sure I wasn’t followed when going to and from the warehouse, where the food truck was garaged. And while the Block is a popular Wilmington hangout, people working and living around Southport had plenty of their own hangouts and rarely traveled to Wilmington just for a meal. Plus, even if a Sunny Point employee did spot me at the Block, they’d have no reason to suspect I owned the place.

  My handler frowned. “There will be an obituary in The State Port Pilot.”

  I nodded.

  “She lived in a mobile home on Long Beach. Local PD is handling the investigation, but I’ve got one of our people on it and another overseeing the autopsy. You’ll be updated shortly. Meanwhile, let me know if you make any connections with anyone who might have motive.”

  I nodded again and Ashton—never one to waste time or words—disappeared without bidding me good-bye. I felt sad for a woman I’d never met in person and wondered what she might have known that could have gotten her killed. Mama Jean had been serving food along roadsides and at construction sites around Southport for more than fifteen years. She’d experienced firsthand the new construction growth and she knew a lot of locals. And since working the truck, I’d learned that people treated me like a hairdresser or cab driver, when it came to talking. They disclosed things they’d probably never say to a coworker or a neighbor. Perhaps Mama Jean had learned something that could have been dangerous to someone. My head buzzed with ifs and unknowns. I changed clothes—stuffing my boobs into my favorite hot-pink sports bra—and headed to the gym for a weight workout. I threw a pair of flip-flops into my bag so I could go for a manicure and pedicure afterward.

  I met John at Fishy Fishy Cafe in Southport and was pleased to see that he looked even better in jeans and a Tommy Bahama silk shirt than he did in business attire. All other things being equal, it never hurt to have nice scenery while doing undercover work. Or eat great food.

  “Wow,” John said when he saw me in a tan linen skirt and wedge sandals. My everyday piece, a.45 caliber Glock, was concealed inside a matching short-sleeve cropped jacket that buttoned at the waist. The getup was complimented by an ultra-low-cut stretchy white top with beaded trim. Since I have the big implants, I figure that I may as well show them off and the majority of my dress-up clothes do just that. “Don’t you look beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I clean up well.”

  We ordered fish tacos for an appetizer and an entrée of p
aella—chicken, clams, and spicy sausage cooked in rice—plus a couple of icy Land Shark Lagers to cut the burn. A group of construction contractors all similarly clad in work jeans, tees, and baseball caps were just finishing their end-of-day happy hour and spotting them was a sure sign of good food and cheap beer. Fishy Fishy butts up to the water and its small bar serves double duty by opening to the outside docks and to the indoor clientele. We chose to sit on the outdoor covered pier to take advantage of the water view, as pelicans swooped in to claim a post.

  When our beers were served, we clinked to Jimmy Buffett’s marketing prowess, as he partnered with Anheuser-Busch to produce the Land Shark Lager under the Margaritaville Brewing Company label. The beers were light and smooth and quite good. Then again, I’ve never tried a new beer I didn’t like. John took another swig, drawing my attention to his missing piece of ring finger. “What happened to your hand?”

  His expression froze in distaste, as though I’d asked something very personal. After a few beats, he held up his hand, fingers outstretched and palm toward me. His hands were huge and the fingers thick with muscle, like a football jock. “Lost it in an accident. No big deal.”

  “Okay. I don’t mean to pry, John. I was just curious.”

  He studied something invisible to me, something hanging in the air, a vivid flashback maybe. “We grew up on a small farm. When we were teenagers, my brother was feeding stalks of corn through the chopper and his shirt got caught. Almost pulled him in.”

  “So you saved him?”

  John drank, nodded. “Back then, not all machines had emergency shutoffs, and there wasn’t time to do anything other than cut his shirt away to free him. I didn’t even realize I’d hurt myself until we saw the blood. He said I was his hero. And he was real upset that a piece of my finger was cut off.” John drank a third of the bottle with one tilt. “What he didn’t realize is that I would have gladly lost my entire hand, or even my arm, to save him.”

  I nodded. “Where does he live?”

  John’s eyes cut sharply to mine. “He doesn’t. He’s dead.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” John didn’t want to talk about it so I didn’t push.

  Our appetizer arrived and we ordered a second round of lagers. He spooned one of the grouper-and-avocado-stuffed flour tortillas onto a small plate for me before serving himself. “Since we’re learning a bit about each other, tell me, Jill. Who do you really work for?”

  “Excuse me?” My hearing is fine, but he’d caught me completely off guard.

  “My guess is Homeland Security, even though you don’t look the type.”

  I showed him my puzzled smile. “You think I work for Homeland Security? That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. Why would you say that?”

  “Just a guess. But what I do know is that the temp agency you supposedly work for doesn’t exist. Mama Jean gave me the number when I stopped by to bring her flowers. I need to hire some laborers to do a renovation project at my condo, but when I called, the person on the other end of that number said she was short staffed and didn’t have anyone available, even though I told her I was flexible on the days. What’s more strange is the fact that there is no business listing anywhere in this area for the temp agency.”

  “You’ve got quite an imagination. Besides, the temp agency is brand new.”

  John smiled and the skin around his eyes crinkled, giving his eyes a friendly, almost mischievous appeal. I noticed that the hair at his temples was slightly gray, but on him, it looked distinguished. “I don’t believe you,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “The miniature cameras mounted beneath your truck’s overhang, for starters. Most people would never bother to look, much less recognize them as digital recording devices. But I’m trained to notice things.”

  I brushed my hair back and styled it with my fingers, unconcerned. “That’s weird, because I’ve never noticed anything even resembling a camera anywhere on Mama Jean’s truck.”

  “I oversee day-to-day security for MOTSU. I know pretty much everything that goes on. And I’ve seen several new additions in personnel that happened all at once.” I started to interrupt but he stopped me with an upheld hand. “Plus I was instructed to have my men on alert for anything unusual and report any deviances—regardless of how slight—from normal operating procedures. Security measures are tighter than before. It’s obvious that a potential threat has been detected.”

  My eyes went wide. “What kind of threat?”

  “Don’t know, wasn’t told.”

  I gave him my brightest smile. “Well anyway, I just sell food from a truck to earn a little lipstick money. For something to do, really. I lead a simple life.”

  He reached across the small table to take my hand. “You are anything but simple, Jill. If that’s your real name.”

  Our paella arrived and he let go of my hand. “Regardless of who you work for, it’s clear that we are both in the business of keeping people safe. Maybe we can help each other out by sharing information.”

  I’d have to notify Ashton of John’s suspicions and there would be hell to pay for somebody. Probably the genius who first made contact with Mama Jean and created my undercover role. “Jill is my real name. And, sure, I’m all for sharing information. That could be fun. Whatcha got for me?”

  “Nothing right now. What do you have for me?”

  “Nothing right now.”

  He nodded to himself. “Well then, I guess there’s nothing to do but eat and enjoy each other’s company.”

  We did just that and my thoughts only strayed to Ox two or three times. John was entertaining, but I would have rather been sitting across from my best-friend-turned-lover. Ox loves spicy food as much as I do. And we might have started playing footsies under the table again.

  ELEVEN

  Napping isn’t my thing, but that’s exactly what I was doing when Lindsey awakened me by pounding on the door.

  “Lindsey, hey, what’s up,” I said, letting her in, not believing I’d been asleep on the sofa for more than an hour.

  “Can I stay here for a few days?”

  I stretched my sleepy muscles as her request sunk in. “Sure, I guess, if it’s okay with your dad. But why don’t you want to stay where you are, at his place?”

  She opened the refrigerator and peered at the contents for a full minute before selecting a bottle of water. “Mom showed up this morning. Flew in on the red-eye.”

  My stomach balled up. “Louise is here, in Wilmington?”

  Lindsey gulped half the water with one tilt of her head. “Yep. She was all stressed out because one of the gifts she brought in her carry-on had broken, and then they confiscated her hair trimming scissors at the airport, and then the flight was delayed. But that’s just Mom. She’s easily excited, you know? Anyway, she had Dad put her luggage in my room and made a big deal about how she’ll sleep in there, with me. Like I care which bed she crawls in. But I think she wants to try and work things out with Dad. She probably got sick of cooking all that tofu and seaweed shit for Albert.”

  “You shouldn’t use that kind of language, doodlebug,” Spud said, coming into the kitchen with a yawn. He’d just awakened from his own nap. “Although I ate tofu chili one time, and it did taste like shit.”

  “Anyway,” Lindsey continued, “Mom is all, like, emotional or something and I don’t want to be in the middle of that little dog-and-pony show, you know?”

  Before I had a chance to answer Lindsey’s request, Ox knocked once and punched in the security code to enter. “Thought I might find you here, Lin.”

  “Hi Dad. Jersey said it’s cool if I stay here.”

  I had?

  Lindsey plowed on. “It’s actually closer to the high school and besides, I’d see you every day, right?” She and Ox both knew that I loved the girl like my own family. Of course she could stay with me, just as she had a few times before. This time, though, the reason for her request was already gnawing a tiny hole in the lining of my
stomach.

  I felt Ox’s eyes on me, but I couldn’t look at him. The passionate hours we’d spent together just a few days ago were fresh and vivid, and I didn’t want to contemplate the possibility of Ox reuniting with his ex. “Sure, Lindsey can stay here as long as she’d like if that’s good with you, Ox.”

  “Thanks, Jerz, that’s perfect! Maybe I can even work at the Block a few hours a day, after school.”

  “Lindsey, honey, why don’t you and Spud play some cards while Jersey and I go downstairs to talk?”

  “No problem.” She practically skipped to Spud and gave him a hug. “Hey, teach! Will you show me how poker side cards—I mean kickers—work?”

  Chatting it up like old buddies, they plopped down at the kitchen table and Lindsey expertly shuffled a deck of cards, just like my father taught her. I watched, thinking about what it would have been like for me to spend time with Spud, back when I was Lindsey’s age. And why, I wondered as self-pity turned my bones to rubber, why did Ox’s ex-wife decide to come after him now, when she’d never wanted anything from him before except money? Life suddenly sucked and my soul felt flat, deflated. Wordless, I walked through the door while Ox held it open. We headed down the stairs, to the Block’s outdoor patio.

  “Louise said she had to divorce me to find herself,” Ox said, once we’d settled ourselves into swiveling chairs. “Now that she’s learned she can survive on her own, and now that she’s sharing the house with this Albert fellow, she realizes that she can open herself up to someone again. Become half of a couple, she said.”

  My abdominal muscles relaxed and I realized I’d been holding my breath. “That’s good, right? If she marries her live-in, you won’t have to pay alimony any longer.”