“I’m. . .I’m sorry. Really.” My pulse pounded in my ears. I just knew my blood pressure had reached the top of Everest. “Am. . .am I going to end up in jail?”
Jerry sighed. “You could. Tamperin’ with evidence. Obstruction of justice.” “I didn’t think—”
“You’re right. You didn’t think. Did you put the money back where you found it?”
I nodded. “If there’s anything else in there, we don’t know. We stopped looking after we found the money. But Aunt Jewel’s locket is missing. She had just gotten it for a birthday present. Momma has pictures of it in her photo album at home. Do you remember if they found anything besides Aunt Jewel’s remains in the field?”
“Besides some fabric, I don’t recall that anything else was found.” Jerry’s face had now regained its normal color. “Actually, if they’d found anything of value, we’d have let you know. And we probably would have found a way to get it back to you if it wasn’t vital to the investigation.” He picked up the phone to call someone, presumably the evidence room. Or the county authorities. All I knew was I would likely never see that brightly colored case again.
“Jerry Hartley here. . . Yes, I have a new lead. I’m sending someone to talk to Joe Toms. . .right. Well, he’d better talk. I have some evidence in the Jewel Kincaid case I need to process. . .could be a break for us. But it may be contaminated.” At Jerry’s words, I cringed.
When he hung up the phone, I told him, “Thanks for what you’re doing. I know you feel caught in the middle sometimes. And I’m sorry I did that to you. It. . .it wasn’t fair.” As brothers-in-law went, I had no complaints about Jerry. Other than the fact his approach to life was as laid-back as Ben’s. Not that either of them was lazy, just that they didn’t see the need to hurry about some things. Well, most things.
“I know you’re sorry. But this puts me in a bad spot.”
My brain floundered for a solution. “I want to give a statement. Maybe if they understand I wasn’t trying to be reckless, and why I did what I did, that will help. Please?”
Jerry gave a slow nod. “I can’t guarantee anything, but sure.”
Twenty-five minutes later, I was done. Now I needed to pray for mercy and stay out of Jerry’s way.
“Thank you, Jerry. And I promise, if I learn anything, I’ll come to you right away.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” Jerry reached for his salad. A good while ago, it probably had been fresh and crisp. Great. I’d ruined his lunch, too. “So, you ready for that festival?”
“Not hardly. I’ve been looking for Bobby Johnson and finding out everything else instead.” I thought of the folder for the Watermelon Festival gathering dust on my desk. I also thought of Sadie’s mushrooming paycheck as she covered the store for me while I gallivanted around. With her return to college looming, she wasn’t complaining about the extra hours lately. “I’m hoping he’ll turn up, somehow.”
“Ben told me about those anonymous deposits in Honey’s accounts. Thanks for the tip.”
I still couldn’t get over the sight of Jerry crunching on salad. “Ben found them in the records, so he gets the credit for it. But I’m hoping to find out who’d been paying her like that. I have my suspicions. Two men. Either Roland Thacker or Bobby Johnson.”
“What’s the reason she’d blackmail either one of them?”
I wanted to keep my promise to Roland not to let Cynthia know about what he’d done, but at the same time be truthful with Jerry. And then the long- ago affair might one day become public knowledge. “Secrets. Both men have them. Bobby might know what happened to Jewel, and if Honey needed the extra cash, she’d sell him her silence. And Roland. . .he couldn’t stand her. She had dirt on him, too.”
“Whatever you do,” Jerry said around the mouthful of salad, “be careful. If you’re right, and there’s a murderer who’s walked free for thirty years. . . Well, you know what they say about desperate times.”
“I’ll be careful. Like I said, I promise I won’t get into any more trouble. Or cause any.” And next I’d head to the newspaper office to see if they’d help me out.
Jerry’s phone rang. He picked it up as I stood. “What’s that? Great. I’ll meet you there. Make double sure you do everything right. The DA wants this case closed down.”
He ended the call and looked at me. “Gabe Davis has been apprehended, and we’re bringing him in for the murder of Honey Haggerty. You should let Ben know he’s off the hook.”
Chapter Thirteen
The office of the Greenburg Dispatch buzzed with activity, as much as a small-town newspaper can. A harried receptionist pointed me to the classifieds desk. “You’re just in time to make tomorrow’s edition if you hurry,” she said over the warbling phone.
“Need an ad?” asked the kid behind the desk. His streaked blond hair hung over one eye. Funny how the closer you get to forty, the more baby-faced someone looks who’s closer to twenty. His expression told me he’d rather be anywhere else than behind a desk with mountains of paper and file folders.
“Actually, I was wondering if I could see some personal ads that a Harriet Haggerty ran in the past. Is that possible? Would you have that in your records? I imagine I could find copies of receipts in her office to confirm the ads, but I thought I’d ask you first.”
When I said Harriet Haggerty, his expression grew more animated. “She’s the lady who was murdered a couple weeks ago, isn’t she? Did you know her?” He had the curious spark in his eye of a newshound. No doubt he wouldn’t be long at the classifieds desk.
“Yes, and yes. My husband runs her restaurant. Or what used to be hers. We own it now. For the moment.” I didn’t want to think about the will. Still no news about any possible opposition from her family, but I sure wasn’t about to share that with this kid. For all I knew, Gretchen Wilkes could be his great-aunt or something. Greenburg had unexpected branches of family trees. Long ones, too. At least Ben was in the clear now, and no threat of a murder charge lurked at our door. Or Gretchen’s either, now that I thought about it.
The barely-out-of-braces young man at the classifieds desk grinned. If he turned out to be the son of someone I’d gone to school with years ago, I’d probably scream and run for a cane. “It’s all computerized now. In fact, I helped set up the database last year while I was doing my senior journalism internship. Let me do a search under her last name.”
A few lightning-quick keystrokes later, and he’d accessed all of Honey’s ads. “Okay, looks like we ran ads once a week for six months. Same message, too. ‘The hive is running low. Meet me at Patch, ten tonight. Bring nectar or feel the sting. Queen Bee.’ Wow, sounds like a cryptic message. Any idea of what this could mean?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. But I’m going to try to find out. Could you print copies of those for me, please?”
“Not a problem.” With another flash of a smile, he typed some more. “I’ll be right back. The printer’s in the other room.”
Hive and queen bee. Honey, of course. Meet her at Patch. . .it sounded like a place. Watermelon patch, perhaps. Bring nectar? Obscure ads. Maybe it was a stretch for someone to consider that a blackmail message. Or maybe not. My brain hit overdrive. Had she meant to bring a payoff? I’d have to find out, and for my next idea, I’d need Ben’s help.
The reporter returned from the printer. “Okay. Here’s your copies.”
“Thanks.” I tucked them in my purse, and as I did so, I removed my wallet. “How much if I want to run the identical ad, say, for the next four weeks?”
The young man glanced from the computer screen to me. “Are you taking over as the queen bee?”
“Not exactly.”
“Thirty bucks. I just need your information and payment.”
I paused. What if whoever responded to these ads wondered who placed the new ones, talked to our friendly young man here, and then came after me? Or maybe they’d be afraid, wouldn’t show up, and I’d be out thirty dollars. But I was willing to bet thirty dollars that
curiosity would draw them to the field. So I gave the kid my name and address and paid him for the ad. After this my idea tank needed filling, because I didn’t know what other leads to pursue. And true to my promise, I’d give copies of these ads to Jerry.
“Andromeda Hartley. . .since you and your husband own her restaurant now, are you trying to figure out what these ads mean?” With a grin like that, he should go into politics.
“Something like that.” I slid my wallet back into my purse. “I have some questions I’d like answered.”
“You sound like a detective,” he observed. “I happened to take an investigative journalism course in college. We could team up. All kinds of people come through the office here, plus I could ask key individuals in town some questions.”
“I sort of work alone. Anyway, the police have arrested someone for Honey’s murder, so that’s not really what I’m focusing on at the moment.” Since this would be common knowledge soon, I saw no harm in mentioning it to the young man. It was like tossing him a bone to gnaw on while I ran the other way.
“Do you have any ideas, though, about what the ads meant? I wonder if these ads bothered someone enough that they murdered her.” The boy leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. “You see the weekly pattern.”
“Wow, are you sure you’re not being wasted here at the classifieds desk?” I tried not to chuckle at his intensity.
“I’m only here part-time, filling in.” He sat up straight again. “The key to being a great reporter is to keep your eyes and ears open for that life-changing story. And one day, I’m going to find it. That’s what I ask myself every morning. Where’s the story?”
“And with that drive of yours, I’m sure you’ll succeed.” I seized the opportunity to stand. “So, thanks for your help.”
“Good luck with those ads. I hope you find your answers.”
“Thanks.” I smiled at him and turned to go. Somehow I suspected he’d be sniffing out leads on someone’s story. A troubling thought told me he’d probably shadow me. I didn’t like that. Worse, what if he caused trouble for Jerry’s work on the case? Oh dear. I hoped I hadn’t caused more trouble.
“Andi Clark—I mean Hartley, how are you?” I hadn’t been paying attention to where I was going and almost plowed into Trudy from the coffee shop.
Today she wore a yellow straw hat with a red ribbon hanging over one shoulder. Her white peasant blouse and tan capris made her look extremely bohemian and definitely not something you saw every day in Greenburg. If I wore an outfit like that, I’d look really wrinkled, or have to spend too much time ironing. We Hartleys are strictly a wash ’n’ wear household. Maybe it was all the ironing I did when I was growing up.
“Trudy. Hi. I’m doing great. Swamped, actually.” Three of the vendors still hadn’t paid the second half of their booth deposit, and my committee chairman gave me the job of playing phone tag, since I “didn’t have to do much at that store.” But I didn’t tell Trudy this.
Trudy beamed. “Ready for the festival where we celebrate all that is watermelon? Can you believe it’s this weekend already? I’m here checking on the Chamber’s big ad. It’s not like people in town don’t know about the festival, but anyway, I’m head of publicity, and I don’t want anyone thinking I’m shirking my job.” All this she said without taking a breath, and she didn’t turn blue, either.
“I’ve still got quite a bit to do this afternoon, but most of the vendors are confirmed and we have the out-of-town craftspeople arriving Thursday morning. We have setup on Thursday night, so I’ll be at the festival grounds for that.” I realized I missed Trudy’s coffee and her chatter. Nothing like a mocha and good conversation.
“See ya then!” Trudy breezed off, and I hurried home. Hopefully Ben knew where the camcorder was. I had only a short amount of time before the Watermelon Festival sucked me into all its dark pink glory, studded with black seeds.
Saturday came, and what I really wanted to do was stay home and sleep. Greenburg’s Watermelon Festival was in full swing. After spending all day Friday at the festival and most of Saturday morning (my faithful Sadie took over at the Tennessee River Soaps booth at three), I didn’t care if I ever saw another watermelon again. Or its seeds. What had led me to say yes to emceeing the kids’ seed-spitting contest? I spent the entire time holding a microphone and dodging both seeds and spit. The Chamber of Commerce newbie getting initiated. To make matters worse, those closest to me were sure to make some cracks about a future mommy in training. It was enough for me to run screaming to the Tennessee hills and hide in Papaw’s old hunting shack.
“Are you sure this’ll work?” I was so close to Ben inside our storage shed that I could smell his cologne. And he smelled mighty fine. Because we were going out. It was only back to the Watermelon Festival, but at least it was a chance for us to be together. He promised to win a bear for me at one of the watermelon-themed game booths. I think they called the game “Beary Watermelon,” and it involved air rifles and watermelon-shaped targets.
Ben pushed the buttons on the digital camcorder. We’d used it on our honeymoon—a cruise along the Mexican Riviera and some sightseeing of Mayan ruins— and hadn’t had time to use it since. Spot had been curious when Ben took out the camera and its attachments. Now she yowled loud enough so we could hear her in the shed, the big baby.
“It’ll work. We’ve got a large enough memory card in there and I’ve set the motion activation feature and the night filter. If anyone comes to that field, we’ll catch them.”
“Maybe this was a stupid idea.” I frowned as Ben attached the camera to its adjustable tripod.
“But we’re trying.” Ben kissed me. “And that’s not stupid.”
“What did Jerry say when you told him about the ads?” I asked.
“He said they definitely sounded suspicious.” Ben worked the controls on the camera.
“I just hope he doesn’t send a car out here tonight or anything.” I squinted through the cracks between the boards. “If someone does show up, I can just picture them driving off if they see anything out of place.”
“Well, Jerry did say not to do anything heroic. And we’ll be at the festival, anyway.”
The wooden walls of the shed had cracks in them, but they weren’t big enough to accommodate a camera lens. Ben drilled a hole through one of the knots and positioned the camera lens in front of the hole. He’d promised himself a new shed next spring, after this experiment in carpentry. I hoped it didn’t rain tonight, because the roof leaked.
“Wait,” I said. “With the camera in the shed, how’s the motion sensor going to work?”
“Good point.” Ben looked sheepish.
In the end, we rigged up what looked like a makeshift pile of junk next to the shed, which was actually our set of trash cans with scrap wood stacked on them, the whole thing covered with a tarp. Atop the heap we rested the camera. I draped plastic over the top of the camera, in case it rained.
Ben turned it on to check the display. “Perfect.”
“So if someone comes here at ten, we’ll catch them.” I almost wanted to stay home and watch through the kitchen window, but the date with Ben meant more to me.
We left for the festival in the late afternoon heat, with promises of watermelon-flavored snow cones waiting for us at the festival. Lord, thank You for this breather. Help us in our quest. I want to find out what happened. For Momma. For Jewel. For all of us.
Once upon a time, the open field near the high school had grown cotton. This weekend we had transformed the grounds into a country fair paradise. Tears pricked my eyes. I used to poke fun at people who got involved in the community, as if they’d put on airs. But this was town pride, and a great show of it.
“I wish Honey could have seen this.”
Ben tightened his grip on my hand as we negotiated the line of booths. “She would have been proud. She definitely liked to bring people together.”
I saw Cynthia Thacker strolling the festival alone. Her hair don
e, a casual pants suit in spite of the weather, she definitely remembered her place as an example of Greenburg “society.” Recalling Roland’s words the other day in his office, I hoped she loved her husband. And that he still loved her. Not that he merely didn’t want his indiscretions uncovered. Our eyes met.
“Andromeda. Ben.” She gave us the thinnest of smiles.
“Hi, Mrs. Thacker. Where’s your husband tonight?”
“He’s home. Couldn’t make it tonight. It’s a shame, really.” Cynthia nodded to a passerby. “He’s got a stomach bug, and he really wanted to be here. Doesn’t want to let anyone down. People count on him to lead the way, especially as Chamber president.”
“I hope he feels better soon.”
Cynthia nodded then continued on her way without another word to us. I wondered if instead of making an appearance at the festival, Roland had decided to stay home and prepare to meet whoever took out Honey’s ad. But Ben and I had already discussed the idea that Honey might have been blackmailing Roland. I tried forcing myself to relax and enjoy the atmosphere.
Kids darted back and forth between the booths. Some hollered for cotton candy. Squeals and screams came from the Tilt-A-Whirl and the Zipper. The festival planning committee had caved at someone’s request to have a few carnival rides. Roland had coughed up the money for the rental at the last minute. A local bluegrass band had taken the stage, as had several other musical acts that were booked for the weekend.
Ben and I made a game of trying to see how many Chamber members we could spot at the festival, but it was hard with the swarms of people circulating around the grounds. Whoever spied the most members got to choose whichever ride they wanted to ride on, and the loser couldn’t complain. I happened to know Ben would get seasick on the pirate ship that swung back and forth, touching the sky. Twilight came, and with it came more people, mostly packs of teens.
“Jerry’s going to be busy tonight,” Ben observed.
“I’m just glad I’m out with you.” I smiled at him. He didn’t look quite as tired as he used to. “Where are we on points? Did you see the Delanes yet, because I didn’t.”
The Wiles of Watermelon (Scents of Murder Book 2) Page 12