CHAPTER 12
I was anxious to get to the office the next morning. Hopefully, get in and get out before Quinn showed up. I didn’t want to lie to him, but couldn’t tell him the new development in Trish’s murder. She wasn’t beaten to death. She died of a gunshot wound to the face. Ridge would withhold that information from the public, and I couldn’t break his trust.
Luckily, Quinn wasn’t in yet. I went over the day’s schedule with Nola then left to meet Ridge at Trish’s studio. The shop was in a strip of retail businesses along Main Street, catering to the arts and crafts crowd. The buildings had been there since the turn of the century and carried every weathered scar with pride. Trish’s shop, called Pretty Paintings, was sandwiched between a homemade jewelry shop and a bookstore. The windows were still shuttered, the blinds still drawn over the glass in the door.
I parked across the street in one of the small gravel lots and waited for Ridge. While I waited, I called Lacy Duggins, my graphic designer, to see how the layout was coming.
Lacy was an old-school advertising guy who, unlike others in his profession, changed with the times. He knew his way around graphics programs and knew better than to put Taylor’s Funeral Service on the same page as the wedding announcements. “Should be ready to transmit by early afternoon.”
We were laughing about Judge Hoffler’s corny ad when movement at Trish’s shop caught my attention. Brent O’Reilly stood at the door, peering in. I watched him a moment, then got out and sprinted across the street.
He jerked around and stared at me, as surprised to see me as I was to see him. He clutched a small bouquet of yellow lilies in his hand, their stems wrapped in a wet paper towel. Glancing down at the flowers, he then looked across the street, anywhere but at me. “I worked with her at the school. She was a sweet girl.”
The school? “I hadn’t realized Trish worked at the school.”
He nodded, staring at the flowers he held. “She was a sub. What’s going to happen to the baby?”
“We’re looking for her father. I’ll run some notices in the paper. See what comes of it. Did she ever say anything at school about him?”
After giving it a thought, Brent shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
“Was she friends with any of the other teachers?”
Again, he shook his head. “She was friendly to everybody but I don’t remember seeing anyone in particular that she hung out with.”
At that moment, Ridge pulled his Expedition beside the curb, followed by another SUV and the mobile crime scene van. He got out, adjusted his ball cap, then offered his hand to Brent. “Brent—good to see you.”
Brent shuffled the flowers from one hand to the other, then shook Ridge’s hand. “Sheriff. I was just dropping some flowers by. She was a nice girl. I bought one of her paintings a while back. It was a doe, in the middle of a patch of mountain laurel. It was pretty. I liked it.”
“You still have it?”
Brent shook his head and grinned. “Nah. Wife redecorated and it didn’t fit the new decor.”
They laughed like they were sitting on barstools swapping wife stories. I didn’t know how long Ridge planned on scouring Trish’s studio, but I needed to get over to Roan Mountain sometime today. Tiny Cormack was on my list of people to see.
“Brent said Trish subbed at the school,” I said to Ridge, anxious to get back to the investigation and kill the small talk.
Brent confirmed my statement with a nod.
Ridge mulled it over before asking, “How often?”
He hem-hawed. “Maybe once a week? I’m not sure. The office would be able to tell you better.” He glanced at this watch. “I’ve got to get. Have a class starting soon.”
“I’ll take the flowers to Ivy if you want. I mean, unless you wanted to leave them here.”
“No. That would be great.” He handed me the bouquet before heading off.
We watched him jog away, neither of us saying anything. The cluster of lilies emanated a gentle fragrance that caught the wind, trailing off into the more dominate smells of autumn.
As we were about to head inside, Merritt Sawyer, the owner of the jewelry store next door, rushed outside. He was red-faced and flustered. “Oh good lord. Has something else happened?”
Ridge held his hands up in a futile effort to calm the man. “Everything’s good, Merritt. We’re here to process Trish’s studio. I would like to ask you a few questions though, if you don’t mind.”
Merritt was a small man with small hands, perfect for the delicate work his job required. But right now, they were flailing about. “Sure, sure. Be glad to help. But come on, Sheriff. Do you have to park right in front of the store? Can’t your men park across the street in the lot? Doesn’t look good for business.”
Ridge looked across the street at the parking lot then motioned for his men to move their vehicles, probably scoring himself a vote from Merritt. “Unload your equipment first.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. Such a shame what happened to her.”
“Did you have much contact with her?”
Merritt shook his head. “Not really. Sometimes if we opened and closed at the same time, we’d say hello at the doors, but other than that, can’t say that I did.”
“Did you notice anyone visiting more than usual? Like a repeat customer, or just a friend dropping by?”
He gave it some thought, then shook his head again. “Can’t say that I did.”
Detective Steve Sullivan joined us after jogging over from across the street. Sullivan was married with four little kids and always looked like he could use another hour of sleep. He was one of those in law enforcement whose mistrust of the media carried over to even a casual greeting. The scowl on his face told me he wasn’t happy about me being there.
Ridge offered Merritt his hand. “Thanks for your time, Merritt. If I have anything else, I’ll be in touch.”
Merritt disappeared into his jewelry shop as Sullivan opened the door to the studio. He rolled his eyes when Ridge handed me a pair of latex gloves. The air in the studio was full of tension and Sullivan added to it.
The silence was overbearing, the stillness, intimidating. The walls held the air captive, refusing to allow it to circulate. Paintings on display that a few days ago illuminated the room with life had lost their glow. The figures on the canvas now seemed frozen in time. A framed photo of Ivy sat on an antique desk along with scattered work orders and invoices. I snapped on the gloves and picked up the frame, running my finger over the image of Ivy’s chubby cheeks.
“You okay?” Ridge stood behind me, speaking in a quiet voice.
I exhaled and returned the frame to its place on the desk. “Yeah.”
“What exactly is she supposed to do?” Sullivan glared at Ridge. It was a fair question. I didn’t know myself.
Ridge gathered the papers scattered on the desk and handed them to me. “See if you recognize any names. You know more people in town than the average person. Look for repeats and anyone you know who owns a rifle. And the two mothers you told me about last night who came to Ivy’s birthday party. Sullivan, check the file drawers and see if you can find more work orders.” He pulled the chair out from under the desk and motioned for me to sit.
I sat down at the desk and began looking through the slips of paper, concentrating on the customer names. I recognized several, some even as gun owners. I set those slips aside. Sullivan handed me a file folder with more. As I thumbed through them, one caught my attention. Mack’s Metals? The slip was signed by Tiny Cormack, Roan Mountain, Tennessee.
I left Trish’s studio around eleven and picked up Highway 221 South, destined for Roan Mountain. I called Doretha from the road to check on Ivy. “She’s a little fussy. But nothing we can’t handle.”
“Is she running a fever?”
“Don’t seem
to be. She’s just a little out of sorts, that’s all.”
“Maybe she’s teething?” It’d been so long since I’d had a little one around, I no longer knew the schedule for those things.
“Could be, but you stop worrying about her. She’ll be fine. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Just as I was about to tell her goodbye, I rounded a peak and lost the signal. Great. Roan Mountain was an hour and a half drive from Jackson Creek in regular traffic, probably two during leaf season. I had no idea if I would be able or not to pick up the signal again on the other side of the mountain. Uncomfortable with being out of touch that long, not only for Ivy’s sake but for Cole and Emma too, I pressed the gas a little harder.
I ran over the names of Trish’s customers in my mind. Dale and Linda Tilly were repeat customers. Dale was also an avid gun collector. I did an article for the paper about his collection a few years back. Karen Summers and Becca Gladney were the two mothers who attended Ivy’s birthday party. Karen worked at the bank and Becca owned a bakery. Trish had provided original artwork for each business. Wesley Morris, the local hunter safety instructor, paid $3,500 for an original oil painting. Ridge balked at the amount and had me set the work order aside. He also had me set aside Brent O’Reilly’s invoice. Like Brent had said, it was for a doe in a thicket of mountain laurel.
It was pushing one o’clock when I reached the gravel parking lot of Mack’s Metals. A chain-link fence topped with razor wire enclosed the south side of the property, protecting small mountains of scrap metal. Mack’s Metals was hand painted in blue on the side of an aluminum-sided building. It reminded me of a homemade yard sign where someone paints cucs and maters for sale in black paint on a cut-to-size piece of plywood.
An OPEN sign hung from the inside against a dirty window. I gathered my notepad and bag then headed in to meet Mr. Tiny Cormack. And hopefully find out how he knew Trish.
From the description Aster Hastings had given of Mr. Cormack, I assumed the giant of a man behind the counter was Tiny. “Tiny Cormack?”
He rose from behind the counter to his full height, which had to be around six-seven. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Ava Logan with The Jackson Creek Chronicle. We spoke on the phone earlier.”
“Oh yeah—the reporter lady. Good to meet you.” He extended a hand that could easily hold four of mine. Surprisingly, his handshake was gentle. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, if you liked them big. His eyes were the color of warmed chocolate and radiated the same warmth. Blond curls poked from beneath a Tennessee Titans ball cap. There was no doubt Tiny Cormack was stout, but there appeared to be much more muscle than fat.
“Is now a good time to talk?”
“Sure. I can spare a few minutes. Let me get you a stool.” He disappeared around a cloth partition then returned a moment later with a simple bar stool. The kind one would be more likely to find at a breakfast bar in a home rather than a drinking bar. He placed it behind the counter near his. “So what do you want to know about the ginseng market?”
I opened my notepad and turned to a clean page. “There’s talk over in Jackson Creek that you’re undercutting the other dealers.”
He let out a loud guffaw and slapped his knee. “Damn Anderson Lee. I knew he was behind this.”
I grinned. “Anderson’s not behind it. Look, as long as whatever price war you and Anderson are in doesn’t turn real ugly and become news, it doesn’t concern me. My real question concerns your pickers.”
He tilted his head back, glaring at me, the warm chocolate eyes now chilled with a hint of suspicion. “What do you want to know about the pickers?”
“Do they tell you where they’re digging?”
“Not my concern. I pay for the product. Doesn’t matter if they dug it out of a moon crater.”
“And you sell what they bring you to dealers in China?”
He nodded then took a long sip of a diet soda that looked like it had been sitting on the counter since morning. He swallowed, then continued, “Mainly Korea. I do most of my business with Korea.”
“What do you consider a good haul for a picker?”
He shrugged. “Depends. I guess if you have to put an average on it, most pickers earn three hundred to five hundred dollars per pound. Seen some walk out of here with ten grand in their pocket. Had a picker hit a honey hole the start of the season and got a grand per pound. Trish lucked up on that. Choice roots, at least fifteen years old.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You said ‘Trish.’ Wouldn’t have been Trish Givens, would it?”
From the look on his face, he was taken aback. “Yeah. Trish. Pretty little thing. She’s an artist over in your neck of the woods. Painted a picture of the shop for me. I’ve got it hanging in the back office. She usually comes in on Fridays.”
Apparently, news from Jackson Creek hadn’t made it over the mountain yet. “Trish won’t be coming in this Friday, Mr. Cormack. She was killed in her home over the weekend.”
Like one of the fresh canvases in her studio, Cormack’s face was blank. After a long moment, he finally blinked. “Killed like murdered? Did they catch who did it?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. Was Trish here last Friday?”
Cormack took off his ball cap and scratched his head like it would help him remember. “She came in that afternoon. I can look up what I bought from her if you need me to.”
“Sure. If you wouldn’t mind.”
He pulled a ledger book from under the counter and flipped through the pages. On Friday’s entries, he used his finger as a guide and followed the numbers. “Looks like she did pretty good that day. I paid her three grand.”
I wrote down the date and dollar amount. “Was anyone else here when you paid her?”
He looked over the ledger again. “Yeah, looks like Greg Hastings was right behind her, and then Lester Paine. I remember Lester commenting on wanting to know her ‘secret.’”
Greg Hastings? “Aster Hastings’ boy?”
Cormack nodded. “From what Greg tells me, ol’ Aster ain’t doing so well these days.”
I thought of the whirring sound the nebulizer made as it pushed air into his damaged lungs. I tried to smile but my mouth just wouldn’t cooperate. “He’s seen better days. How much did you pay Greg Hastings that day?”
He glanced at the numbers. “Looks like four hundred dollars. Not a great day. But it’s four hundred dollars they didn’t have, right?”
I forced a smile. “Right. This, ah…Lester Paine. Does he live around here? Don’t believe I’ve heard that name before.”
“Yep. Lester’s ’bout two miles up the road. On a little side road called Perkins Place. Got his phone number if you want it.”
I jotted it down as he recited it. I was much more interested in talking with Greg Hastings than Lester Paine, but I didn’t want to overlook anything either. “Tiny, one other thing and then I’ll let you get back to your work. Do you know where Trish was digging?”
“Pisgah Forest.”
My eyes widened. “She was digging on federal land?”
Cormack shrugged his massive shoulders. “Said she had a permit. I didn’t question it.”
CHAPTER 13
I called Lester Paine from the parking lot of Mack’s Metals. The call went to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. It would have been nice to interview him in person, but my instinct told me Greg Hastings was the one I needed to talk to. If I needed to, I’d call Lester again and do an interview over the phone. Right now, I needed to get back to Jackson Creek. I had a paper at the printers and a cranky toddler to deal with.
Nola answered the phone on the second ring, which meant things were slow at the office. “Lacy called and said, get this, Ed Stinger called him and wanted to know if you ran the poaching story.”
What the hell? Why w
ould Ed call Lacy for that information? Why didn’t he just call the office? My face flushed with anger. “Call Lacy and tell him I’ll deal with Ed. Anything else?”
“Gladys Boatright called and said the church is holding a spaghetti supper for families in need. She wanted to know if Pansy’d do an article on it. I got the basic information and said we’d call her later in the week.”
“I guess paying for an ad is out of the question.”
Nola snickered. “You know Gladys. You’d be doing a public service for a public service event.”
I sighed. “Uh-huh. And printing the paper doesn’t cost anything these days either.”
Stories like New Hope Baptist Church’s fundraising dinner teetered on a wobbly line. Was it newsworthy? On a slow day, maybe. Give me the name of a family the church has helped in the past, a father out of work, a sick mother—there’s the story. Like the whole poaching thing. Calvin’s land being poached wasn’t the real story. But if the poaching had ties to a murder…Ed Stinger might have just opened a shitload of stink.
I wanted to call Ridge and tell him what I’d learned but lost the signal in a valley outside of Blowing Rock. I wanted to call Ed Stinger too, but needed to sit on that call until I calmed down.
Being out of touch even for an hour made worse-case scenarios swirl like tiny tornadoes in my head. Maybe I was a slave to modern technology. But it had been years since I had a little one to worry about. Although it didn’t lessen the worry, there wasn’t much I could do at the moment so I queued a Carolina Chocolate Drops CD in the player for the ride home.
The late afternoon sky peered over the mountain peaks in a brilliant shade of blue. Trish couldn’t have painted the landscape any prettier. The layers of rich autumn colors against the cloudless sky infused a relaxing air into my jumbled thoughts. Ed Stinger…Greg Hastings…and Grayson Ridge were occupying too much space in my head. I cranked up the volume on the CD player to drown them out.
Tell Me No Lies (An Ava Logan Mystery Book 1) Page 10