I shook my head. “He drove a black pickup truck, not old, not new.”
Clark had laughed. “Well, that narrows it down to half the guys in the county.”
While I finished getting ready for bed, I continued presenting my case to Greg. “For the sake of argument, say it was a meeting. She takes Troy as cover and goes into the maze like any auntie showing her nephew a fun time, when in reality she is making a drug exchange.”
“Look at this, sweetheart.”
I sat on the edge of his bed as he turned the computer screen towards me. On it was one of the photos Ollie had taken. It was an enlargement of a couple of people gathered in the maze by the murder scene. Greg pointed at a woman.
“Isn’t this Tara Brown?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Look at her closely, particularly her bag.”
I squinted. Tara was carrying a large, ugly messenger bag. It was hanging across her body bandolier-style.
“You know, Odelia, I think you may be right. I’m no fashion expert, but wouldn’t that be the perfect bag for transporting drugs and money?”
“It sure would. I mean, it doesn’t prove anything, but most women wouldn’t carry a bag like that. Generally, men carry messenger bags. Women would be most likely to carry a shoulder bag, tote bag, or maybe even a cute backpack.” I paused to think it through. “Or no bag. When I went into the maze, I left my purse in my car and only carried water. My phone and some money was tucked into a pocket.”
Greg brought up another couple of photos with people. In another of Tara and Troy, Tara appeared to be clutching the bag close to her body. He pointed at the photo. “But even with this, why the maze? Seems like too much trouble to me.”
My tired, middle-aged brain tried to sort out the facts into complete thoughts and sentences. It was difficult. “Les was already meeting Mom in the maze, so why not kill two birds with one stone? He may have told Tara to meet him there, too.” Another thought, an offshoot of the other, presented itself. “And maybe Les asked Tara to bring Troy so he could see his son.”
“So you think Tara killed Les?”
“In front of her nephew? Again, unlikely.” My shoulders sagged with exhaustion. “Like with Mom, it’s only a theory on why she was there.”
I went back to the desk and started drawing on a clean sheet of paper. In the middle, I put a square and put Les Morgan’s name in the center. I wrote down Tara’s name to the side and drew a line from it to the center of the square and wrote “exchange” across the line. Next, I wrote my mother’s name on the other side with a line to the square and labeled that “blackmail.”
“Had Les made it out of the maze,” I began, concentrating on the new drawing, “he would have had a lot of cash on him. Cash from the blackmail and cash from the drugs. But Clark said no cash was found on him or anywhere. I’m guessing the drug exchange didn’t happen before Les was killed, but there were no drugs found either.”
“Unless there were drugs found, and Clark didn’t tell us.”
I grabbed my cell phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Clark.”
“Odelia, it’s late. Ask him tomorrow.”
I looked at the clock. It was nearly eleven, and Clark did look like he was about to drop when he was here. Reluctantly, I put down the phone. Instead, I drew a big question mark above the square on the paper and drew a line from it to the square. On the line, I wrote “took cash and drugs” with another question mark. As a last flourish, I added another question mark several inches above Tara’s name with a line to her that was marked “lover.”
“Whoever killed Les probably knew about the drug and cash exchange and about the blackmail money Mom was going to pay him. Les could have been killed for both.”
Greg raised an eyebrow. “By Joan Cummings maybe? After all, she got her son out of the way.”
“Joan was working that morning at the police station.” I rubbed my tired eyes. “And Les was killed before he met Tara, so the killer didn’t get that money. Or did he?”
I circled the question mark indicating Tara’s on-the-side affair. “I wonder if Tara’s lover had anything to do with the murder?”
Greg closed his laptop and put it on the floor next to the bed. “Come to bed, Odelia. You’re going to blow a fuse in that busy head of yours. We can go over it all tomorrow. Willie might have a fresh perspective.”
He was right. My head did feel like a balloon with too much helium. I eyed the twin beds with disfavor. Greg noticed and laughed.
“Come here, sweetheart.” He patted the narrow space beside him. “There’s plenty of room for both of us.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“Then at least climb into my bed for a snuggle.” He extended an arm to make a nook for me. I got into his bed and nestled against him. He kissed my forehead and held me close.
“Tomorrow, I think we should hunt down Tara Brown, don’t you?”
Greg gave me a squeeze. “Uh-huh. Sounds good.”
“And visit Mom. Maybe I can try water boarding to make her talk.”
“Whatever you say.”
Greg’s mouth traveled down from my forehead to my cheek to my mouth. He kissed me firmly while his hand found and fondled one of my breasts. It was a familiar signal of an amorous advance. But as much as I wanted to dive right into his sexual invitation, I held back. Sensing my hesitation, he leaned his head back so he could look at my face.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart? We’re all alone in the place.” He chuckled. “Why should Willie have all the fun?”
“It’s not that, honey. It’s the bed. With my size and your limited movement, it’s kind of small for this, don’t you think?”
“No different than the back seat of a car.”
“Um, hate to tell you this, but I’ve never, um, had sex in the back seat of a car. The front seat either.”
“You haven’t?” He seemed genuinely surprised.
“Nope. I’m a back-seat virgin.”
Greg pushed my nightgown down off my shoulder and kissed my neck. As his kisses moved south, he mumbled, “We’ll have to remedy that when we get home.”
Greg and I had just sat down to breakfast when Willie came sauntering in from outside. I was drinking my juice. Greg had his nose stuck in the morning paper.
“Why, Mr. Carter,” we heard Mrs. Friar say with cheer as he came down the hallway and entered the dining room. “You’re up and out early this morning.”
“That’s me. Got that early bird and worm thing going on.”
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. Greg snickered from behind his newspaper.
“I am making mushroom omelets for Mr. and Mrs. Stevens this morning. Would you like one? I also have fresh blueberry muffins. My grandkids picked the blueberries just yesterday.”
“Sounds divine, Mrs. Friar. Thank you.”
Willie sat down. I picked up the coffee carafe and poured him a cup. He looked like he could use it. Chipper or not, he looked a bit ragged around the edges.
“Rough night?” I asked when Mrs. Friar went back into the kitchen.
“Nah, Sybil’s not into the rough stuff.”
Greg snickered again. No matter what their age, when it comes to sex, men are adolescents.
I lowered my voice. “Before or after your nocturnal shenanigans, did you learn anything new?”
“About Sybil, plenty.” He hoisted his cup into the air. “I may have found a kindred spirit in that woman.”
“You mean, she’s on the run?”
Willie laughed so hard he sloshed his coffee. “Not sure about that yet.” He grabbed a napkin and wiped the dribble from the side of his cup. “Let’s just say Sybil shares my rather loosey-goosey moral fiber.”
“That’s okay, cousin,” Greg said, folding and putting aside the paper. “Odelia and I were pretty loosey-goosey ourselves last night.” He winked at me.
“I thought I noticed a fresh glow about her.” Willi
e smirked into his coffee cup.
I was about to deliver a suitable retort when Mrs. Friar waltzed through the swinging door with our breakfasts. “Yours is coming up in a jiffy, Mr. Carter.”
After Mrs. Friar served Willie, she brought in a basket of a dozen freshly baked blueberry muffins. “I have to scoot on over to my house for a moment. My husband just called and said he needed help with something. Just help yourself if there’s anything you need.”
Willie grabbed a hot muffin, dancing it from hand to hand until finally dropping it on his plate. “Last night I got to sample some of the pot being sold from Buster’s stand. I must say, it was primo stuff.”
Willie sliced open the muffin. Steam rose from its fluffy insides as he slathered it with butter. His cholesterol was really taking a beating this trip.
“Some of the best I’ve ever had.” Willie looked from me to Greg with a big grin. “I had to try it, you know, in the spirit of my investigation.”
Greg picked up his own muffin. “Did you bring us any?”
After slapping Greg’s arm, I said, “We talked to Marty Cummings last night. He was waxing poetic over it, too. I thought it was just the ramblings of a stoner.”
Willie waved a table knife in my direction. “Never underestimate a pothead’s sense of quality, little mama. At least not when it comes to cannabis.” He took a bite of muffin. “Anyway, the high quality gave me an idea. I asked Sybil if she’d ever heard of the Browns doing any growing of their own.” Willie talked with his mouth full. He swallowed. “Damn, I don’t know when I’ve tasted better muffins. I could eat the whole batch.”
“Over my dead body,” Greg said, his own mouth stuffed with blueberries and dough.
Not to be left out, I buttered up one of my own and took a bite. It was heavenly. Let’s see, a dozen muffins and three of us; that seemed about right.
Breaking the spell of the magical muffins, I got the discussion back on track. “You think the Browns are growers?”
“When you think about it, it makes sense. They’re farmers. It’s what they do. Seems a natural step for them. But, alas—Sybil said there’s been no rumor to that effect. Doesn’t mean it’s not happening, but she was pretty sure that isn’t the case. So I had my people check, and they also came up with nothing on it.”
“Clark didn’t say anything about growing, just selling.”
Willie stopped stuffing his face and stared at me. “So the chief does know about the drug biz?”
While Willie moved on to his second muffin, I gave him the condensed version of our latest discussions with Clark, then gave more thought to the idea of the Browns growing. “It would be pretty risky and stupid for them to grow their own weed. They’d not only be naturals at it, they would be natural suspects.”
“Good point.” Greg started on his second muffin.
“In fact,” I continued, “legally, it could jeopardize their whole family enterprise, couldn’t it? I mean, if they’re growing and get caught, they could lose their entire farm, and everyone connected with the farm could be charged.” I made sure the guys were following me, in spite of their blueberry muffin haze. “But if they’re only selling product out of the stand, they could pass it off as something only Cathy and a few others knew about and possibly save the farm and the family business. Selling the product of others might minimize the farm’s exposure, don’t you think?”
“Quite possible, little mama.” After buttering a third muffin, Willie started on his eggs. “By the way, I like your ideas about the blackmail and Joan Cummings’ involvement. Nice work. I think it’s becoming clear that Les Morgan could have been there on several missions. His bosses could have sent him to do McKenna’s old job with the Browns, and he thought why not shake down the old lady at the same time. It’s not like anything would get back to his big bosses through her. He’d do his job and make some quick cash for himself on the side, not to mention stick it to the Littlejohn family over Cathy.”
He plowed through half of his omelet before speaking again. “I also asked Sybil about the Cummings kid. She said he’s the local dropout poster child. That his mother’s tried almost everything to straighten him out. Frankly, I’m surprised he has a job.”
“Don’t you think it’s odd that his own mother gave him drugs?” Holding myself back at only one muffin, I started on the cantaloupe on my plate.
“Not if you consider your theory about her wanting to keep her kid out of the way. Question is, who gave her a heads-up about something going down in the corn maze that morning? Was it Brenda? And if so, how did she know—unless she was involved? And if she’s involved, is Grady? Maybe the two of them are into more than just fleecing Grace out of that money.”
With Greg’s mouth full of muffin, I kept the conversation going. “Did you ask Sybil about Grady and Brenda?”
“Yes. She knows Grady and says he hasn’t been in the Kettle for quite a while. Brenda, on the other hand, she wasn’t so sure about. Could be those two are keeping their relationship way under the radar.”
“Seems strange, doesn’t it, that she came on to you when she had a thing going on with Grady?”
Willie shook his head in amusement. “If she wanted information bad enough, a girl like that wouldn’t think twice about bed hopping to get it.” He took a bite of muffin. “Could be the thing with Grady is fairly new. She could be working him.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe to get her hands on the Littlejohn money. Or maybe a twofer, the money and information.”
Willie continued. “Nothing either on Tara Brown stepping out, but Sybil did say she wouldn’t be surprised. Said that Clem Brown is a real bastard to his wife.”
“Clark told us that last night, too,” Greg added.
I took one last bite, my brain moving in sync with my mouth. “After seeing Grady and Brenda so cozy last night, I wonder if they’re the ones behind all this. Maybe little miss I-wanna-be-a-reporter didn’t come down to cover the story as much as to create the story.”
I pushed my plate away and pulled my coffee close. “I think it’s time I have that heart-to-heart talk Brenda’s been asking for. I also still think we should talk to Tara Brown.” I gave Willie an update on my theory about Tara possibly being the money link and go-between.
Willie listened closely while he finished his breakfast. “Sounds feasible, especially since she was in the maze near the time of the murder.”
Greg leaned back and patted his full stomach. “After looking at the maze last night, it’s pretty clear that almost anyone could have slipped into it from one of the other openings and slipped out again virtually unnoticed. They could have even approached it from the river.”
“I definitely want to talk to my mother again. Old lady or not, I want to push her about the blackmail theory and the fingerprints.”
Willie grinned. “There’s that take-no-prisoners spirit I love.”
Greg placed a hand on my arm. We looked at each other before Greg turned to Willie, seated across the table. “Willie, Odelia and I were talking. We think you should leave.”
Willie, his nose deep into his coffee cup, looked up at us. “What? You don’t love me anymore?”
I leaned forward. “Willie, it’s because we love you that we want you to leave.”
“From what Clark told Odelia last night, CPAC is all over this case, and not just because of the murder. They’re investigating the drugs, too. They’ve been working with Clark on it for quite some time.” He paused. “We don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Willie leaned back in his chair, his eyes hooded in thought. “Leaving is definitely something to consider, under the circumstances.”
“And,” I added, “you’ve already told Clark you have business in New York, so it wouldn’t look suspicious for you to up and go.”
After breakfast, Willie excused himself. “I’m going to grab a quick shower and think about the leaving issue.” He grabbed another muffin and wrapped it in a paper napkin. “For the possible roa
d,” he explained.
“I have your clean clothes,” I told him as I got up. “Follow me, and I’ll get them for you.”
Greg clapped Willie on his arm as he passed by. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate what you’ve done for us, Willie—now and in the past. Know that you’re always welcome in our home.” The two men shook hands. “And while you’re upstairs, don’t forget to rumple your bed. Wouldn’t want Mrs. Friar to wonder where you spent the night.”
“You’re right about that. Although in this town, I’m sure many people already know.”
After giving Willie his clothes, I cleared off the table and took our breakfast dishes into the kitchen for Mrs. Friar. Greg brought his laptop to the dining room table to work where there was more room. Since Greg was with me, I had to do my own calling to the firm. I left our office manager, Tina Swanson, a voice mail message that I needed to take a few more days off, but that I’d be available via my BlackBerry. I left a similar message for Steele.
While Greg worked, I went to the kitchen and rummaged around for a phone book. Finding one, I took it back to the dining table. It wasn’t very large and covered many of the small towns and villages in the area. I opened it to the listings for Brown. There were quite a few.
I was running an index finger down the page looking for Clement or Clem when my BlackBerry went off. It was Mike Steele. I didn’t answer it. A few minutes later, my cell phone rang. It was him. I didn’t answer it. Greg’s cell phone rang. Before I could warn him, he answered it.
“Hey, Mike,” my husband said. “Yes, I know she’s staying a few extra days. I’m with her. Yes, I am. I flew in Sunday night on a redeye. No, she’s okay. It’s just complicated.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
Greg finished his call. “Mike’s not happy, but he’ll live.”
“Humph, too bad.”
I went back to the phone book. “I know that Tara is married to Clem Brown, but his real name is Clement.”
“You’re kidding me.”
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