“Jersey, it’s great to see finally see you,” she said.
It was? I hadn’t seen her in person for years, and then, she’d all but glared at me.
“You look terrific,” she added.
I was wearing torn jeans and a T-shirt baggy enough to conceal the weapon in my paddle holster. “Thanks, Louise. You look great yourself.”
She tucked some hair behind her pierced ears, probably so I could get a better look at the huge emerald-cut diamonds clinging to each lobe. “Lindsey tells me that she really loves Wilmington and that you guys have been having a lot of fun together.”
That was true. “She’s a great kid.”
We were sizing each other up when Louise looked down and screamed. She moved in place for a moment, tiny little feet doing their own version of an Irish step dance. “Eeeow!”
A tiny green lizard had found its way into the Block and appeared to be darting toward an exit.
Ox was there in an instant. “What’s wrong?”
Louise pointed at the retreating offender, but was too panicked to speak.
“Just a lizard taking a shortcut through our bar,” I explained.
Ox rubbed his ex’s back, between her shoulder blades. “It’s okay, Louise. It’s gone now.”
I shut my eyes for a long second to keep from rolling them.
“She’s petrified of bugs and such,” Ox explained.
Puhlleeeze. “Lizards eat bugs, Louise.”
She cocked her head like a poodle recognizing its name. “They do? Really?”
“Really.” I pointed at an insect that existed solely in my imagination. “Just like that spider over there. Spiders are like filet mignon to a lizard.”
She spun around and did the dance again. “Eeeow!”
Trying to hold in a smile, I excused myself and left Ox to comfort her.
Once everyone settled in, our group occupied five square tables, pushed together, and I’d asked Ruby to keep the finger foods and fresh fruit coming. Drinks being consumed ranged from black coffee to straight vodka. It was an eclectic gathering but all the fuss centered around Lindsey and she beamed like a true headliner. Louise recovered from the lizard incident and returned to flutter around like an annoying helicopter mom, but Ox hung back and watched the activity with an amused twist to his mouth. Earlier, he and I had spoken about the Block, a problem with one of the employees, and his daughter’s newfound fame, but something tangible had slithered between us. Not to mention that I couldn’t get the vision of him rubbing his ex’s back out of my mind. Before my thoughts could worm their way to the corner of my cerebrum, where I’d corralled all emotions concerning Ox, I tuned in to the conversation flowing around me.
“Have you considered expanding your target market for Derma-Zing?” the project director was saying to Holloman. “I ask because the possibilities for marketing to a wider consumer base are out there.”
“Such as?”
“Well, take for example the Harley-Davidson bikers. Several hundred thousand riders attend weeklong rallies every year in cities across the country, such as Sturgis, South Dakota, and Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. You could work out a licensing deal with Harley-Davidson to sell a stencil kit of their logos, with tubes of Derma-Zing in black and Harley orange.”
Lindsey spat out a sigh of revulsion. “Oh, gross!”
“Why gross?” the agency gal said.
“You don’t have teenagers, do you?” I asked the woman. “See, the quickest way to turn a teenager against anything they consider way cool is to have them see the same thing on an ’old’ person.”
“Hello?” Lindsey added. “Derma-Zing on some scraggly, tattooed biker dude who’s like, fifty or something, with a beer gut hanging over his belt? I don’t think so.”
Two golf ball—sized circles of pink appeared on the woman’s cheeks and Holloman laughed. “Not only is our spokesperson a beauty with a unique personality, but she’s got marketing savvy, too.”
“The stencil idea may have some merit, though.” I finished a peeled shrimp and washed it down with a gulp of Carolina Blonde, a tasty light ale brewed in Mooresville, North Carolina. “What if you offered stencil kits to all the major universities that have strong athletic programs? The students could logo each other before a big game.”
“Hmm. I want to keep my target market relatively tight, from teenage girls to those in their young twenties,” Holloman said. “So the college thing could work.”
The entire table looked at Lindsey, awaiting her reaction.
“Yeah, sure. I mean, education is in, you know? I’m going to college. For that matter, most high school girls want to look like college girls, and can’t wait to date an older, college-aged guy.”
Ox drew his daughter’s attention with narrowed eyes.
“Not me, Dad. I said most girls. I’m sick of boys, period. Trust me, I’d rather spend Friday nights with Cracker than go out on a date with a guy. At least I don’t have to listen to the dog talk about himself all night.”
That drew a collective laugh and the project director regained her composure. She clapped her hands. “Well, let’s finish this shoot and we can talk about the college market later. You ready, Lindsey? Let Mary have a swipe at you with the makeup brushes, and we’re ready to go. Guys? Crew? Extras?” she called.
There was a bustle of activity as a variety of bright portable lights were switched on, two studio cameras were locked into tripods attached to rolling dollies, and all traces of alcoholic beverages, clutter, and beer signage were cleared from the background. A smattering of laid-back locals and a few wide-eyed tourists were content to enjoy their food and beverages in the half of the Block that wasn’t cordoned off. Wilmington is home to EUE Screen Gems Studio and is the country’s third largest film and television production site, so it’s not uncommon to spot film crews or celebrities. But you can always tell a tourist from a local, because a tourist will request autographs from anyone placed in front of a studio camera. Locals don’t get too excited until they see the likes of a genuine big-screen star.
Ox found me sitting at a corner bistro table, where I’d attempted to move out of the way.
“We should get some photographs of this shoot for our wall of fame and shame,” he said. “Maybe I’ll give the camera to one of the regulars and ask them to do it.”
“Sure, good idea.”
“Lindsey said you got in late last night,” he said. “She and Spud played cards until after eleven and you still weren’t back. Is everything okay?”
“Just out on a date,” I said. “Figure I may as well have a little fun while I’m gathering information.”
Ox’s face hardened. “Anyone I know?”
Did I detect jealousy? As if he had a right to be jealous.
“Doubtful,” I said. “Just somebody who works at Sunny Point.”
“You learn anything new?”
“Not really.”
He took my shoulder, forcing me to look at him. “Please don’t shut me out, Jersey.”
“I’m not shutting you out. I’m just staying out of the way while you figure things out with your ex. Besides, between SWEET and Spud and Lindsey, I’m staying pretty busy.”
“Any developments at MOTSU?”
“No.”
“How’d it go with Lady Lizzy?”
“Fine.”
“Ashton keeping you on the roach coach?”
“Far as I know.”
With a heavy sigh, he strolled off. Of course I’d shut him out, but I couldn’t help it. We never should have had sex. Especially not extraordinary, minds-on, addictive sex. Two indulgent hours had changed everything and so far, it wasn’t for the better.
FIFTEEN
In honor of Lindsey’s first day back to school, Ox cooked everyone an early breakfast of eggs and waffles at the Block, after which he and Louise planned to drive Lindsey to New Hanover High. Louise, blond hair gelled and blown-dry into a sassy poof around her face, spent most of the meal poring through real
estate magazines rather than celebrating Lindsey’s new status as a high school senior. Spud asked if she planned to buy property in Wilmington and Louise said something about Ox needing a bigger place. If Ox wanted to get back with his ex and move into a new house, then I was all for it. But I sure as heck didn’t have to listen to the details. I thanked Ox for breakfast and made my escape.
Other than getting a late start on the roach coach, it turned out to be a relaxing day and I found myself enjoying the camaraderie as I fed drive-ups, even though there was a lot of conversation about Mama Jean’s death. Some regulars had seen the obituary and word of mouth spread the news to most everyone who knew her. As it turned out, she didn’t have children or a husband, and had willed her estate to local charities. When it was time to close shop, I called Ashton.
After determining I’d called from the truck, he immediately called me back on a secure line that fed through my onboard laptop computer. I plugged in a headset and we did the secret code pleasantries to ensure him that I was indeed alone.
“Can you take another look at John Mason?” I said.
“Talk to me.”
“We had dinner the other night, and while he is both pleasant and quite handsome, I’ve picked up on a few inconsistencies. Nothing major, but the more I think about it, the more I realize you might want to check it out.”
“Go on.”
John said he asked for the temp agency’s phone number from Mama Jean because he needed work done at his condo, I told Ashton. But John’s address on file belonged to a four-bedroom home on seven acres, according to the tax records. He didn’t have a condo, unless he’d rented one somewhere. And why would someone pay to have work done on a rental? They wouldn’t. Furthermore, I said, John totally clammed up when I asked about his family. Unlike most men, he refused to talk about himself. Plus, there was the whole business of John asking who I really worked for. When I finished telling my handler of my suspicions, I asked about Mama Jean’s autopsy results.
“She was asphyxiated. Some bruises appeared that weren’t there when we first viewed the scene—consistent with a struggle—and there were petechia hemorrhages in the eyes, face, and lungs. Time of death is estimated to be about four o’clock in the afternoon, day before the neighbor found her. I saw her around one thirty the day she died, when I brought her the week’s deposit. In any event, forensics is going back over her condo, inch by inch. I suppose you want to see the report and autopsy photos?”
“Might trigger something,” I said. “I’ve had a lot of conversations with a lot of customers about Mama Jean.”
“I’ll send a courier to the Block.”
“Thanks. You find any flowers in her place?” I asked.
“Of course. Eight arrangements of cut flowers and three green plants, all with the note cards still attached. Made a list of the names and we’re following up with each of the well-wishers.”
“John’s name on that list?”
“Negative,” Ashton said.
“He told me that he’d gone to see Mama Jean to bring her flowers. That’s supposedly when he asked how she came to hire me.”
“Anything else?” Ashton said.
“Nope, other than I’d like to learn more about the death of John’s twin. He actually saved his brother’s life when they were teenagers, you know.”
“Need I reiterate that you are in place to observe and report—not investigate?”
“No, sir.”
“Was I unclear in explaining your assignment?”
I busied myself securing the truck’s refrigerator and freezer compartments. “No, sir.”
Ashton cleared his throat, a sure sign of agitation. “I’m pulling you off mobile meal truck duty. Go straight to the warehouse and secure Mama Jean’s truck as usual. Stay away from the ammo dump. And if Mason calls you, make an excuse as to why you can’t see him.”
“But he’s actually a lot of fun,” I protested. “Maybe another date or two? I might learn something useful.”
“Negative.”
Why had the mention of John Mason spooked my handler?
“At least let me stay on the roach coach another week? I think I’m getting close to learning something.”
“Again, no.”
“But I’m just getting good at cooking breakfast biscuits. I was going to expand the menu to croissants!” Not to mention that my tips had already added up to nearly three hundred dollars and I was saving for a new La Perla camisole with matching boy shorts and silk striped robe. Another week of tips would put me there.
Ashton hung up.
I made the drive and, after stashing Mama Jean’s truck inside the warehouse, headed to the Barnes Agency in my Beemer. Both Rita and our new partner, JJ, were in the office, as was the masseur that came in three days a week to answer phones and revive tired muscles. His portable massage table stood in the middle of the room and JJ was prone on top of it. Instead of hiring a temp to replace our secretary, who was out on maternity leave, Rita had chosen to spend the money on stress reduction.
“Hey, Jersey,” JJ said, facedown. “Those are your feet, aren’t they? How ya doing?”
“I should ask you the same thing.”
“I’m doing great.” She lifted her head. “Gotta love a job where I can get a deep-tissue massage in the office, even if I did get thrown off a moving bus last week in Savannah.”
“She’s fine,” Rita told me. “The bus wasn’t going that fast. Besides, she wasn’t pushed off. She fell off.”
JJ settled her head back into the massage table and the masseur went to work on her neck. “Thrown, fell, whatever. I caught the woman when she got off at the next stop. And she had the DVD in her beach bag, which made for another satisfied Barnes Agency client.”
Rita handed me some mail. “We’re still getting a few clients that refuse to deal with anyone except you, but they mostly come around. You enjoying retirement?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “I’ve been cooking and selling breakfast out of a truck on the side of the road for the past two weeks.”
“Did I forget to direct deposit your profit-share check last month?”
“You’re funny, Rita. I got called back into service for Uncle Sammy and that’s my cover.”
“Do they know you can’t cook?”
I stayed long enough to get a neck and back massage, and left feeling good about the status quo at the Barnes Agency. Rita and JJ were doing a great job without me. But I didn’t feel good at all about the status of munitions shipments being processed through the ammo dump. I ended up at my kitchen table, nursing a beer, rubbing Cracker with my feet, and mapping out the locations of upcoming social events. Once done, I compared the dates with incoming munitions shipments. For my trouble, I ended up with nothing. I studied Mama Jean’s autopsy report and photos, that—as Ashton had promised—had just been delivered to the Block. I came up with more of the same: nothing. And I wasn’t sure if my nauseous stomach was due to stress over Ox’s love life or due to the fact that I was missing something obvious. I felt sure I’d gotten close to uncovering one of Ashton’s so-called pointers, or clues. I could almost taste it. Like a hungry junkyard dog, I’d caught a scent of something rotten. When that happens, it’s against my nature to just let go. Stubborn might equate to stupid, but time would tell. I went over the shipment schedule and social calendar for a second time with the same result.
“Well, crap,” I said to the dog. “You think John gave me a bogus schedule? Or, do you think the schedule is legit, but I’m not looking in the right place?”
Cracker yawned and flipped over so my feet could reach his other side.
SIXTEEN
“I won’t see you around Sunny Point anymore,” I told John over orange juice and sweet rolls. As I expected, he called to ask why Mama Jean’s truck was absent and I agreed to meet him at a café. I wasn’t ignoring Ashton’s orders—not really—since breakfast doesn’t qualify as a date unless it’s a continuation of the prior night.
; “That’s too bad. I’m going to miss seeing you every morning. Not to mention your sausage biscuits,” John said. “You working the food truck somewhere else?”
I shook my head and tried to think of something plausible. “Nope. Since Mama Jean died and she has no heirs, there’s no reason to keep the truck operating. I guess it will be sold or given away with the rest of her estate.”
John thought about that. “Are you still on Sunny Point duty, then?”
I put on my indulgent smile. “As I’ve already told you, I’m just a simple person leading a simple life. I don’t know what you mean by Sunny Point duty.”
“You’re still not going to tell me who you work for, are you?”
I shook my head.
“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway.” He finished his juice. “I’m thinking about taking today off. Why don’t you follow me to the mall, park your car, and then we’ll go take a drive? Do something fun. Maybe hit a museum or go bowling.”
Before I could agree, my personal cell rang. “Your daddy needs a ride,” Dirk said when I answered, “and I’m not putting his belligerent ass in the back of my unmarked unless he pipes down.” Lieutenant Dirk Thompson is a Wilmington cop who has a soft spot when it comes to Spud. Or a tolerant spot, at least.
“Good grief. What’s he done now?”
“It’s actually all four of ’em.” Dirk paused to tell Spud to be quiet. “In Bobby’s van. They didn’t feel like taking the seats out of the back to create a cargo area, so they strapped a”—he paused to quiz Bobby—”a giant alligator to the van’s roof. Came from a mini-golf that shut down. Oh, there were also planks of scrap metal and four life-sized mannequins up there, too. Bought those at a thrift shop.”
“Oh, hell,” I said. When his friends had collected Spud earlier in the morning, they said they were going shopping. I assumed they meant for staples like Bengay sports cream and prescription drug refills at the CVS and pork loin specials at the Piggly Wiggly. Not alligators and mannequins.
T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 02 - Southern Poison Page 9