The Price of Beauty in Strawberry Land

  “No problem – we’ll have that information tonight or tomorrow. Anything else?”

  “Yes, can one of you give me a ride back to Chiefs?”

  I saw Loretta Turner pulling into the parking lot as Jeff and I were leaving. Like them, I was glad I would not be around for what happened next.

  ~

  N ickie brought me a drink and knew something was wrong.

  “You okay, Mr. Detective? You seem troubled this afternoon.”

  “I am – but not sure for what reason.” She didn’t understand that reply.

  “Drink up. An empty glass will absorb your troubles. I run a bar – remember?”

  “That’s not it Nickie. You’ll hear about it later, but I think they have found that beauty queen, Charlotte Luckey dead. I’m obviously upset from that, but I’m more troubled by who the killer may be.”

  “Tell me Carson, I’ll listen,” she was sincere.

  “I just cannot accept the fact that a father could murder a daughter – at least not a murder like I just saw evidence of. All things will, and do, point to him. I think he is guilty of many things – but I don’t think murder is one of them.”

  “Why do you/they/whoever think it is him?”

  “They just will – trust me. It’s the easy answer, but I think the wrong one.”

  “Okay, Carson – drink up, day is still here and the night hasn’t started yet. Would you like something to eat?”

  “No, but did you save me the paper?”

  “Yep – here it is,” she said handing me a well used newspaper.

  The headline read:

  DA SUMMONS THE GRAND JURY

  The article explained that the Memphis District Attorney had summoned a grand jury to investigate charges of illegal activities in the Memphis Mayor’s office and in the Memphis Police Department. It went on to explain that future charges might be forthcoming with the Shelby County Sheriff’s Department and other law enforcement operations.

  Side articles contained photos of the mayor, ex-mayor, police chief and Shelby County Sheriff – all had responded with ‘no comment’ to the questions from reporters. I felt sure they were very busy ‘lawyering-up’ before having to speak to a grand jury.

  Another related article mentioned the re-opening of the investigation into the death of Barry Lassiter and contained his picture along with his wife, Darlene.

  I found no mention of Steve Carrollton or any of the Memphis Mafia in any of the news copy.

  ~

  F rom the outside phone I called Larry Parker and actually reached him in his office. He told me basically the same things I had read, except that Federal Marshals had brought Steve Carrollton from the Turney Center Prison back to a local jail for questioning. He also said that Bubba and Bobby had not been located and that it would be best to extend my fishing trip until I heard something different.

  Then I called Monica at the New Orleans number she had provided. I wasn’t sure she had seen this on the news and certainly would not have read the Commercial Appeal. However, she and Rita had already talked and it seemed their communications were keeping her updated. Monica would remain in New Orleans until we both decided it would be okay for her to return to Memphis.

  ~

  B ack inside the restaurant I summoned Nickie over to my barstool.

  She spoke first, “Look Carson, it’s just too early for you to keep soaking up that Jack and Coke. Let me fix you something to eat – okay?”

  “Sure – get me one of Ronnie’s burgers, well done. And tell me – how can I reach your cousin? The one that runs the airport?”

  “You mean Ted Blaylock? Let me call his wife and see if he is still at the airport. You could see him there or he could stop by here. Is he a suspect too?”

  “No, no, he isn’t a suspect. I just need to ask him some technical questions. If he is still at the airport, I’ll drive out and see him there.”

  Nickie made a phone call and then returned along with my burger. “He’s still at his hanger office. Said he would be there for another hour or so. I told him you were coming out.”

  “Thanks. I’ll stuff this burger down and go see him.”

  “Carson, you should eat better – hamburgers for every meal isn’t healthy,” she was being motherly.

  “I know. Hey, do you like canned butter beans?” I asked with a big grin.

  “Huh?” Nickie frowned.

  “Never mind, let’s just have a burger for now,” I nodded as she walked away.

  Pieces to the Puzzle

  I guessed Ted Blaylock to be in his mid 40’s - just about right for a World War II pilot – which he was. Slender, balding and a significant presence of intelligence in his manner and speech. Air Force Captains were a well-respected group – Ted Blaylock fit that model.

  He greeted me at the hanger door. “Hello, Mr. Reno. So very nice to meet you – I have heard so much about you from Nickie, I feel I know you already.”

  “Please call me Carson, and it’s nice of you to take the time to see me. Hopefully, Nickie has been kind with her words. We’ve been friends for a long time and do kid around a lot.”

  “She speaks very highly of you and I’m flattered you are seeking information from me – although I have no idea how I can help. And don’t be concerned about my time – this isn’t exactly the busiest airport in West Tennessee,” he wanted to be helpful.

  “I understand you were very busy last weekend. I attended that party and noticed various aircraft coming and going most of the afternoon and evening."

  “That is the busiest this airport has ever been and probably will ever be. I think I handled about 15 aircraft over the two day period – landing fees, fuel, hanger rent – it was good for this airport. Is that what you are here to ask me about?”

  “Sorta. I’m interested in an Cessna 172 Skyhawk you handled during that weekend.” I asked.

  He referred to a clipboard with forms and receipts but seemed to know most of the information without his notes. “Yes sir. Owned and flown by a Mr. Phillip Chaney of Memphis, Tennessee. Landed at 17:30 Friday evening and departed 14:45 Saturday afternoon. He purchased 80 gallons aviation fuel and paid for 24 hour outside storage and landing fees - all with cash. You need to see the receipts?”

  “No, I am mainly interested in his arrival and departure times and if he had made any special requests.”

  “No sir. But he returned on the following Monday – landing at approximately 18:00. I can only estimate because I had already closed for the day. He was close to our time limit of landing without lights, I do know that.”

  “How does that work? I mean when you aren’t here?” I asked.

  “It’s an honor system – really. When they land they complete forms we provide and then deposit them in a message box located in my office door. I mean, someone could land and then leave and we would never know – but I expect that rarely happens. In this case, he completed the forms and I eventually saw him the next day - Tuesday. He took off at 15:40 and returned at 16:45. He purchased fuel and departed this morning at 09:30 – again paying me in cash.”

  “Tell me about flight log books and how they work?” I asked.

  “Pilots are required to keep log books logging hours, routes, landings etc. Most are not required to file pre-flight plans, so these books are really 'after the fact’ – if you know what I mean.”

  “Your meaning is that pilots might just simply forget to log flights or log incorrect information?”

  “When that happens it is usually intentional. Pilots want to make sure they are credited with flying time. The pilot might ‘forget’, but only when they have made some trip they wanted no one to know about. However, there is one thing they wouldn’t forget.”

  “And what’s that Ted?”

  “To log the plane’s hours. That is critical for scheduled maintenance. Any pilot who gets in a cockpit wants to know that the plane’s hours are properly documented and any required or scheduled service has been performed. Not to properl
y record flight hours, along with take-off and landings, would just be plain stupid and unhealthy.”

  This was good information. “Would that log be kept with the plane?” I asked.

  “Yes sir, it would.”

  “Ted, I need a favor. Phillip Chaney will be flying that plane back here within the next couple of days – probably tomorrow. I would like to know what kind of hours it’s logged over the past several months. I looking for unusual trips – not the short hops, but significant distances. Can you do that?”

  “I can surely try. Should I call you at Nickie’s place if I get any information?”

  “Yes, please do,” I nodded and smiled.

  We shook hands and I pointed the Ford toward Jackson. I had another visit to make before calling it a day.

  On Highway 45 at the Gibson/Madison County line I found the ‘My Place’ Bar and Grill – owned and operated by former Coach James ‘Jimmy’ Gannon. The High School Football Coach who had been involved with Charlotte Luckey. It wasn’t much to look at – outside or inside.

  I grabbed a stool at the bar, ordered a Budweiser and checked out the scenery. I didn’t recognize anyone, so I figured I wasn’t going to run afoul of any of Mickey Campbell’s men. Leroy hadn’t told me whether they had picked Mickey up yet, but I expected that to happen real soon.

  An oversized, unshaven bartender delivered my Budweiser and I said, “I’m looking for James Gannon.”

  He responded, “Congratulations.” And walked off.

  That was an odd response - so maybe I needed to rephrase my words.

  “I said I’m looking for James Gannon. Do you know where I might find him?” I yelled at this idiot.

  He walked back to me, leaned across the bar and said, “Mister, I heard you the first time, and if I had intended to respond to your comment or question, I would have done so,” he turned and waited on another customer.

  His comment told me what I wanted to know – I was talking to Coach James Gannon. Usually - oversized, unshaven bartenders are not known for proper speech. This oversized and unshaven bartender had some education – although he really didn’t want it to show.

  The jukebox was not too loud and I could tell from the set-up and marquee that live entertainment would be performing at ‘My Place’ this evening.

  I got his attention and motioned him back over. “You ready for another beer?” he asked.

  “Sure. And Coach Gannon I would like a few minutes of your time, if possible.”

  “Who are you and why are you here?”

  “My name is Carson Reno. I’m originally from Humboldt, but now work as a private detective in Memphis. I’m working with the Gibson County sheriff and FBI to try and locate a missing person – Miss Charlotte Luckey. You know her?”

  “Oh shit.” Was all he could say.

  “Look, I’m here to help – if possible. You and I both know that within a few hours the police are going to walk through that door and ask you a lot of embarrassing questions. Maybe I can diffuse some of that if you talk with me.”

  “I don’t have anything to say, and if I did – why say it twice. They are coming whether I talk with you or not – right?” He had a point.

  “Okay, Coach, let me try this a different way. They are going to ask you if you have any knowledge of her whereabouts – you save that answer for them. I want to know if you have had any recent conversation or contact with her father, Travis Luckey?”

  “I threw him out of here last Saturday night. He ran up a tab with one of the waitresses, then couldn’t pay his bill. He’s a bum - Mr. whatever you said your name was. He’s always been a bum. If anybody knows where Charlotte is, it would probably be him.”

  “The name is Carson Reno, and why do you think he would know?”

  “Because Charlotte is the only person in the world that cares whether he’s alive or dead – that’s a fact Mr. Reno.”

  “Yes Coach, I’ve gotten that impression myself. Do you remember what time you threw him out and any idea where he might have gone?

  “It was around midnight – we close at 2 and the band was getting ready for their last set. I have no idea where he went – he did get in a cab – guess he stiffed the cab driver too.”

  “What cab company? You know?” I asked.

  “Only got one that comes out here – Yellow Top Cab from Jackson. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy and trying to get ready for a big evening. Come back again when you don’t need to ask me about Travis Luckey.”

  ~

  I stopped back by the Sheriff’s office so I could hear bad news in person and not over the phone. Leroy was still at the hospital, but both Jeff and Scotty were there. Loretta Turner had identified the body as her daughter, Charlotte Luckey. The time of death was estimated to be late Friday night/early Saturday morning and the body had been in the water since that time. Cause of death had not yet been determined, but preliminary examination indicated Charlotte has received a severe blow to her left temple – blunt force trauma – they call it.

  Jeff had gotten my information on phone calls to/from Phillip Chaney’s room at the Holiday Inn – there had been only four. Three inbound calls and one outbound. The first was Saturday morning at 2:12 AM. That call was placed from the payphone located at the Bailey Park pavilion. The rest were during his second stay – an outbound call to my office in Memphis, a call from Chiefs (me) and a call that came in at 1:30 PM on Tuesday and made from a payphone on Chester Street in Jackson, Tennessee.

  “ No other calls?” I couldn’t believe this.

  “None – we are sure,” Jeff replied.

  “That bastard Phillip Chaney is one lying son-of-a-bitch. The 2:12 Saturday call could be from Charlotte, and we already know the Tuesday call was from Travis – he admitted it. But Phillip claims he had calls from his brother –obviously that didn’t happen. He lied and is still lying.”

  “We know. Leroy has already sent word for him to get back to Humboldt, as quickly as possible. We expect him to fly in tomorrow.”

  “Can you check on a cab ride by Travis Luckey last Saturday night? I’d like to know where he went.”

  “Sure, what are the details?” Jeff was already reaching for the phone.

  “Pickup at ‘My Place’ bar around midnight by Yellow Top Cab. He might have stiffed the cab driver for the fare.”

  Jeff was already dialing and Scotty said, “Carson, where do you come up with this stuff?”

  “I’m a detective – remember,” I said smiling.

  Jeff hung up the phone. “They delivered him to 1803 Chester Street in Jackson – somebody at the delivery address paid the fare. Now - you don’t have to ask us what is located at 1803 Chester, because we already know. That’s a warehouse owned by Mickey Campbell. We know because we arrested Mickey a couple hours ago, and that is where he was when the Madison County sheriff picked him up.”

  “Interesting. So you got Mickey in an upstairs cell too?”

  “Yep, and it is as quiet as a church up there – nobody talking to nobody!” Jeff explained.

  “What about the goons – Brody and Russoti?”

  “No reason or instructions to pick them up – you know something we don’t?”

  “No, I just don’t like the thought of them running around loose with Brad Knuchols at the controls. Were you able to find any information on Denny ‘Dude’ Smith?” I asked.

  “Not yet, but I expect to have something in the morning. He has an Olive Branch, MS residence address, but we have also picked up something from out in Three Way. Could be that rental you mentioned. I’ll know tomorrow.” Scotty said.

  I told them both I was headed back to Chiefs and to please make sure Leroy was updated when he came back to the office.

  ~

  I made a detour and stopped by the Humboldt County Club - with the intention of asking Nuddy a question about the night of the party. However, when I saw Mary Ellen, Gerald, Judy and my Memphis lawyer friend Jack Logan sitting around a table at the downstairs bar, I deci
ded to join them. I pulled up a chair and was getting the usual hugs and handshakes. Nuddy had already delivered me a drink before we got our hellos out of the way.

  “Well, Mr. Logan, what brings you to Humboldt? Seems you are now here more than I am. Can I trust you to check in with my Mom and Dad on occasion?” I jokingly said to Jack.

  “It’s business, Mr. Detective and I understood you were in Mississippi on a fishing trip. Fish not biting?”

  “Not a nibble, Mr. Logan, not a nibble. However, I do need to collectively ask you guys a question. Last Friday night at the party, Charlotte Luckey came into the house and made a scene. Can anyone give me good estimate of what time that happened?”

  “11:00 o’clock Carson, almost exactly,” Mary Ellen answered.

  “How can you be so sure?” I asked.

  “Because we just had the deputies remove that redneck Billy Vickers from the property. The deputy made me sign some sort of form and he dated and wrote down the time – it was 10:45. She stormed in no more than 15 minutes later,” Mary Ellen was matter of fact with her answer.

  “Perfect, that is what I needed. Can I buy you guys a drink? I’ve got to get back to Chiefs and make a phone call.”

  Judy responded. “No, but you can tell us if they have found her? Is she kidnapped? Do they know anything?”

  I reluctantly said, “Charlotte Luckey is dead. As the result of murder, I suspect. What you hear and read tomorrow is basically all I know. A couple of fishermen found her floating in Humboldt Lake – evidently she had been there since the night of the party.”

  “OH NO!” Everyone seemed to say at once.

  “Billy Vickers – he did it,” Mary Ellen shouted. “He found her after she left my house and killed her. He was certainly mad enough to do it when I had him thrown out.”

  “Perhaps, but there is a lot more to the story than you know. So I suggest you keep speculation to a minimum and let Leroy and the FBI do their work.”

  “FBI?” Jack asked. “Sounds like more than a lover’s quarrel. The FBI doesn’t involve itself in romance disputes – that we know for certain.”