Perdition

by R. Jean Reid

  “We do go on, don’t we?” Nell said with a sad, ironic smile, then wanted to pull it back. She’d gone on after Thom’s death, but it wasn’t the same thing as going on after the death of your child. She wondered if Velma Gautier would think her some emotional parasite for equating the two.

  “Thom was a good man,” Velma said, then echoed Nell. “We do go on.” She returned her small smile.

  Nothing would make Ray’s Bar into an architectural gem, but the balloons did take away some of the desolate look.

  Nell’s cell phone rang. She grimaced an apology to Velma and fished the phone out of her purse. She stepped away as she clicked on the screen, so as to not hold the conversation right in front of Velma.

  It was Harold Reed. “The FBI men weren’t as impressed with our circumstantial evidence as we were. They’ll meet us Monday morning.”

  “I suppose we should be thankful it’s Monday morning and not next month.” Nell sighed.

  “I’m not thankful,” Harold replied. “This is murder, and I got the impression they’re busy on the trail of some casino corruption. I’m making a few more phone calls. Keep your cell phone with you,” he instructed.

  “With me and battery charged,” Nell agreed.

  “Where are you?” Harold asked, clearly realizing that Nell on the cell phone meant Nell not in the safe office of the Crier.

  “I’m covering the reopening of Ray’s Bar.”

  “I suppose Sheriff Hickson is there,” Harold commented dryly.

  “There is a sheriff’s car out front, but I don’t really know who it belongs to,” Nell said innocently.

  That question was quickly settled with the opening of the door of the bar. Hickson walked out with Ray. Perhaps it was to take a look at Velma’s handiwork or perhaps they just wanted a word together.

  “Miz McGraw,” the sheriff said upon spying her. “What a pleasant surprise to see you here.”

  Somehow Nell doubted that. “Now I do,” she said to Harold. “Catch you later.” She hurriedly hung up and put the phone away, trying not to look like she’d just been talking about the sheriff.

  “Since the yacht club parties get more than their share of coverage, I thought it was only fair that Ray’s get some notice,” she said to him in as breezy a tone as she could muster.

  “Said she might run pictures in the paper,” Velma added.

  Sheriff Hickson’s glance from Nell’s camera to his car wasn’t subtle. He hooked his fingers in his belt and said, “Well, let me get that car out of the way. Give you a better shot.”

  “Thank you, that would be kind,” Nell said. “But I’ve already got some shots of the outside of the bar. Why don’t I get some of you and Mr. and Mrs. Gautier standing out front.

  “No sense having me in it,” the sheriff demurred. “It’s Ray and Velma’s place. Get their picture.”

  “Naw, Clureman, we wouldn’t be open without your help,” Ray cajoled. “C’mon over here.” He threw an arm around the sheriff’s neck, then belatedly remembered to put the other arm, the one that ended at the elbow, around his wife.

  Nell dutifully snapped several photos, taking care to make it obvious the sheriff’s car wasn’t in her view.

  “Didn’t think I’d get much of an opening crowd,” Ray said as Nell snapped the last picture. “Not the press and all,” he went on genially, as if surprised Nell had bothered but happy for the notice nonetheless.

  “I suspect Miz McGraw was huntin’ for me,” Sheriff Hickson said.

  “Not really,” Nell hedged. “Velma and I run into each other every once in a while at the library, and I wanted to come out in support of her.” It was just on the border of a lie, Nell knew, but it was also something that she wanted to be true.

  Ray gave his wife a pleased smile and Sheriff Hickson gave Nell a disbelieving frown.

  Nell continued. “But as long as we’re both here, can I ask you a few questions, Sheriff Hickson?”

  “You do know how to hunt a man down, don’t you?” he answered resignedly.

  “Not at all. I just take advantage of opportunities when they present themselves.”

  “Why don’t y’all come in and have a drink? On the house,” Ray said.

  “C’mon, Miz McGraw, y’all need to see the inside,” the sheriff said as he took her arm to lead her into the bar.

  Nell was aware of what he was doing—changing the balance in his favor. Out here, it was neutral territory; they were visible to anyone driving around the harbor and Nell had a clear path to her car. But the bar was the sheriff’s territory, with his friends. Ray and Velma were friendly now, but Nell knew their welcome would disappear if the sheriff made it clear that she wasn’t wanted there.

  But his hand on her arm and Ray’s welcoming smile gave her no choice but to enter the bar.

  It’s just a bar, Nell reminded herself. Although its owners might not be pleased if she angered the sheriff, she doubted they would do more than ask her to leave. At least she hoped that she wasn’t headed for cement overshoes and a long swim.

  At first the only thing she could see was the hot pink neon beer sign over the bar, but then her eyes slowly adjusted and she could make out the interior. All the usual things were there: the bar itself, with a stuffed marlin hanging behind it; a pool table; a juke box; and an assortment of chairs and stools.

  One of the older daughters—over twenty-one, Nell hoped—was behind the bar. She declined the beer that was offered to her and instead asked for a club soda, closing the few feet between herself and the sheriff. She leaned against the bar next to him.

  “Non-alcoholic,” the sheriff said as he hoisted something that looked very much like beer. He took a sip, then said, “That a gin and tonic you got there, Miz McGraw?”

  “No, club soda,” Nell retorted. “I’m still working, and after work I have my children to take care of.” Of course he knows it’s club soda, she reminded herself. He’s just baiting me—and trying to get me to react like a huffy prig. And succeeding, she admitted. Trying to recover, she said, “So now that we’re enjoying our non-alcoholic, approved-for-working-men-and-women drinks, how about those questions?”

  “Guess you picked up some of those big city reporter tricks—ask questions where ever and whenever you can.”

  “I did look for you at your office, but you weren’t there,” Nell answered. “I guess I think that people who are paid by the taxpayers should be held accountable.”

  “Accountable for what?” he returned.

  “Insuring that the prisoners in their jails are kept safe.”

  “Just like a bleeding heart liberal, standing up for the rights of a faggot child molester,” he shot back at her.

  Nell was relieved to note that Ray and Velma were on the other side of the bar, chatting with some new customers who had just entered. She also noticed that she, Velma, and the daughter behind the bar were the only women in a room of about ten men.

  “I’m sorry, I must have missed the trial in which Ronald Hebert was proven guilty,” Nell coolly replied.

  “And I suppose I should be held ‘accountable’ for saving the taxpayers the cost of housing him and trying him until the lawyers finally ran out of excuses to keep his sorry ass off death row.”

  “What if Ronald Hebert was innocent? What if someone framed him to get away with the murders? Or do you think Doug Shaun is such a perfect cop that he could never be wrong?”

  The sheriff was nonchalantly downing his beer, but he stopped in mid-guzzle at the mention of his rival’s name. “Doug Shaun can be wrong five times ’fore getting out of bed.”

  “So you admit it’s possible that Doug overlooked evidence that Hebert was framed?”

  The sheriff took a hard swallow of his supposed non-beer before replying. “It’s possible, but even Doug Shaun couldn’t of messed this one up,” he finally said.

&
nbsp; “But what if he did?” Nell probed. “Who’d ever know? Except the real killer?”

  The sheriff gave her a hard look. “You think the killer’s still out there?” He chugged the rest of his beer, then said, “You been watching too much TV.”

  “It just seems a little too much luck has come Doug Shaun’s way. We have a killer who cleverly plots his murders, seems to have an obsession with detail, but suddenly one anonymous phone call and he’s caught. Then the suspect dies before he even got a chance to tell his side.”

  The sheriff didn’t answer, instead moved down the bar to beckon the bar tender for a refill. Unless the kegs were mixed up, the tap his beer came out of wasn’t the non-alcoholic one. After taking his time, he rejoined Nell.

  “So maybe Doug Shaun planted that stuff, to get the glory of catching the killer,” he answered.

  “But where would Doug get it?”

  “Simple. Doug’s the killer.” The sheriff chortled. “Want me to go arrest him? Tell him Nell McGraw sent me?” This time he let out a belly laugh.

  “What about the murder of Marion Nash? Are you going to let him solve that one, too?”

  That cut the sheriff’s enjoyment short. “You sayin’ we ain’t doin’ all we can?” he shot at her.

  “Do you believe the theory that she picked up some strange man and was murdered in a brutal sexual crime?”

  “I guess it’s what makes sense … but hard to think that Erma Nash’s daughter grew into something like that.”

  “I don’t think Mrs. Nash believes it,” Nell said gently.

  “You been talkin’ to her?” he asked sharply. “Mr. High and Mighty Police Chief went out and questioned her. Askin’ those kinds of questions. Don’t know why being treated like that didn’t give her a final stroke.”

  “No, I haven’t talked to Mrs. Nash. My mother-in-law did.”

  “I got all the respect in the world for Miz Thomas. You’d do well to follow her.”

  “She asked me to look into Marion’s death—to prove that Marion wasn’t the tramp she’s being painted to be. Still think I should follow Mrs. Thomas?” Nell needled him.

  “You find out anything about Marion’s death, you come to me, you hear?” Sheriff Hickson looked directly at Nell to give his words weight. “Not that boyfriend of yours. You come to me.”

  “Doug Shaun is not my boyfriend,” Nell retorted. “And he seems to be doing a better job of solving murders in this town. So why should I come to you?”

  “Because I care about Marion Nash. To him she’s just some stupid girl that picked up the wrong man.” Under his breath he muttered, “Didn’t think I’d live to see the children of this town dying ’fore me.” He took a long swallow of his beer, then shot at her, “But it’s just another story to you, ain’t it?”

  “No, it’s not just another—”

  He cut her off. “Sell a few more papers, right? I’ve been here all my life, grew up here. Seen a lot of changes. Just didn’t think I’d see the day Mr. Thomas’s paper was nothing but a junk paper.”

  “Junk paper?” Nell flared. “Ronald Hebert was a child of this town, too. But maybe because he was gay he doesn’t count. Or maybe it’s not nice to think your neglect and bigotry might have killed him.”

  “You put that in the paper and you’ll regret it,” he retorted.

  “If I can ever prove it, it’ll be in the paper, you can count on that,” Nell shot back.

  They glared at each other, a contest of wills. Nell started to bring up the book in Marion’s possession, partly to see the sheriff’s reaction and partly to prove she had reasons beyond mere speculation for believing that Ronald Hebert was innocent and the real killer was still free. But she hesitated. Sheriff Hickson knew the woods and the bayous here; he could easily have engineered the deaths of Rayburn and Joey. He certainly had access to the boys—what if he’d been the one molesting Rayburn and it had escalated into the boy’s death? Smiling faces can hide a lot, and so can drunken ones.

  “The day you got more than just women’s intuition, Miz McGraw, you put it on my desk. Now, y’all have to excuse me, got other folks to talk to here.”

  Nell finished what was left in her club soda, found Velma and said goodbye, and then was back out in the sunshine.

  What have I learned, she thought. That the sheriff is an asshole—but I already knew that. Was he a jolly little kiddie diddler who’d finally progressed to murder? The man had the ego for it. And Nell suspected that beneath that good ole boy exterior was a cunning man. Asking him about the book would have served no purpose—if he knew about it, he’d deny it, and it would tip him off that Nell knew about it. Even if Marion hadn’t gone to him, it wasn’t likely he would have let Nell know that.

  Harold had denied that Marion had brought the book to him, and Nell believed him. For what that was worth. And Doug had seemed genuinely surprised when she’d told him about Marion, so that seemed to rule him out. It narrowed things down nicely, Nell thought; either Marion went to the sheriff or she didn’t. She may have talked to Sheriff Hickson himself or to any of his deputies. But still, the killer could be any of the rest of the uniformed men in town: father and son Jenkins, Philip Yorst and his yacht club henchmen, the entire Air Force base over in Biloxi, and a few that she probably wasn’t aware of.

  Nell started her car. Time to get back to the safety of her office. At least there the only danger awaiting her there was irate subscribers.

  As Nell entered, Jacko approached her, “Can I talk to you?”

  “Yes, sure, come into my office,” Nell said, and he followed her back. “So, what’s up?” She slung her purse onto the desk and turned to face him.

  “You remember that possible job in Austin? They called me today. We did a phone interview.”

  Nell sighed, softly, she hoped. “I guess you’ll be leaving beautiful Pelican Bay for the scorching plains of Texas.” She tried for a light tone to cover her disappointment.

  “The thing is, they want me to start Monday.”

  “Monday?” Nell echoed. “As in Saturday, Sunday, and Monday?”

  “Yes, or at least as quick as possible. I don’t want to leave you hanging … but I’m not doing much real reporting now anyway. Even the sewer and water board doesn’t want me.”

  “I will miss you, but I’m not going to ask you to stay just to be rejected by the bigots on the sewer board.”

  “I’ll finish up everything I’ve been working on, file all those things I’ve meant to file, so that … whoever replaces me will have a chance.”

  “You don’t need to do that. Just tell me where you are on things—”

  “No, I need to finish up,” Jacko interrupted. “You taught me a lot of things, Nell, about reporting and … about integrity. I at least owe you a clean desk.”

  “But will you have time to get packed and out of here?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m young, don’t have much. It can all be thrown in the back of my car in an hour. My landlady’s happy to see me leave, particularly as I’ve already paid to the end of the month.”

  “And I’ll pay you to the end of the month,” Nell said.

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “Yes, I do.” He started to shake his head, but Nell continued. “I’d pay Carrie to the end of the month, and you’ve probably already done more work than she has.”

  “Thanks. I admit it would make my life easier. I’m staying with the owner in Austin. He said he’s got a spare bedroom and he needs me as soon as possible, but I’d like to have my own place sooner than later.”

  “Good. All I ask in return is that some day after you’ve won the Pulitzer, you come back and visit and write a story or two.”

  Jacko blushed at the compliment. “I might like to do a few stories for you before that. It might not be easy to do it long-distance, but I … don’t just want to walk awa
y from Ronald’s death.”

  “I think his death and Marion’s are linked,” Nell said. “I don’t want to walk away from either of them. I’ll take all the help I can get, even long-distance.”

  “Marion is another ghost I don’t want to just leave behind,” Jacko said softly. “Another reason I can’t quite leave. Her funeral is tomorrow.”

  “I talked to Kate Ryan,” Nell said. “Sort of widow to … widow.”

  Jacko nodded, then said, “I like Kate, I like Kate a lot. She and Marion … were what I wanted to be when I grew up.” His jaw clenched briefly. Then he said, “Kate is probably the main reason I can get packed in an hour—she offered to help, and she takes no prisoners when it comes to efficiency.”

  “Let me know if I can help in any way,” Nell offered. “Josh has a major crush on Kate. He’ll probably be glad to help, too.”

  “Thanks,” Jacko said with a slight nod, an acknowledgment that they handled parting the same way—a quiet, understated goodbye. “Let me get back to work. I have some research I want to complete.” With that, he left Nell to the less-than-pleasant task of calling the people who would accept nothing less than a personal conversation with the editor-in-chief about their missing papers.

  In the late afternoon, her phone rang. Since she’d already taken care of the first, second, and third level of irate patrons, Nell felt it safe to answer. Mentally she also noted that Josh was at the bike shop and Lizzie had texted that she was studying with Jennifer. The ringing phone shouldn’t harbor any immediate crises.

  “Nell, hi, this is Doug. I’m calling about two things. First and most important, to see if we’re still on for tomorrow night.”

  “Uh … yes, we are,” Nell answered, although she’d made no progress on the child-minding front. But she didn’t want to admit she’d been too consumed by the day’s events to remember tomorrow’s.

  “And, secondly, on a more business-related note. I’ve been thinking about what you said about Marion’s death. You’re right; it does seem an odd coincidence to have so many murders in such a short time here. I’d like to take a look at that library book, if you can arrange it.”