“It was Rand. He must have looked up Bubba when he found out I was investigating Mrs. Alyce Cancannon’s murder. He didn’t want me nosing into his past, I guess. He is a suspect because he inherits the same amount as the nieces. He could be the murderer, for all I know. I’d been saving him and Celia Cancannon for last. Maybe I should have started with him.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“Just my dignity. He bound my hands with duct tape. I promised him that I wouldn’t run away and he eventually freed them, before he took me to Bubba. Then he feared for his own worthless hide and ran away and left me there. I’m looking forward to future conversations with the jerk. He almost got me killed.”
“Why did you agree to go with him?” Jasmine asked, trying to get oriented.
“Wayne and Donnie Ray were upstairs. I didn’t want them involved.” I didn’t mention that she was also on the way home, and could wander in unsuspecting.
“I would have seen Rand’s truck outside your door,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t have blundered in, I would have gone upstairs and called you. You could have warned me over the phone, just as you did when we met on the driveway. That way, you wouldn’t have had to confront Bubba.”
“I couldn’t take the chance,” I lied.
Jasmine studied my face and I had to lower my eyes. I covered it by rubbing at a stain on my pants. It’s difficult to lie to Jasmine. She seems to have X-ray vision into my soul.
After a short silence, she spoke.
“Tell me what to say.”
“You came home just as we were leaving. You didn’t know Rand, and knew I was expecting you, and wouldn’t have left except for a dire emergency. You quickly exchanged your car for the van and followed us. When you reached the warehouse, you went inside, just in time to hear Bubba threatening me. You started forward, spotted Bubba advancing toward me, you rushed to help me, and I shot Bubba. It’s simple.”
“But not the entire story, is it?”
I pulled the truck door closed, the dome light went out, and her face was in shadow. I hoped mine was also.
“It’s close enough. We have to tell the same story,” I stressed.
She pulled her purse toward her, and took out the gun.
“You put it back when you got the Kleenex. I will tell your version, but I want to know why.”
“Why do you think I put it in your purse?”
“Because I had it under the seat, and if I hadn’t taken it inside and yelled freeze, and prepared to fire before you knocked me aside, it would still be under the seat.”
I sighed. “Will you tell it my way, and stay out of it? I’m expecting Hank to come roaring up any minute with a whole pile of people in tow. I have to know what you’re going to say. I can’t be caught in a lie at this stage.”
“I’ll tell it like you say. I now understand why you want me out of it, so they can’t question me about my past and embarrass me on the stand. Don’t you realize they will do exactly that, if I’m on the stand telling your version?”
“Of course I do, I just don’t want two women pointing a weapon at Bubba. Even if the ballistics report proves I’m the only one—”
A faint squeal of tires sounded down the block, then we could hear Hank’s engine before we could see his car. He wasn’t using the siren, or the flashers.
He skidded to a stop and quickly started toward the van. Jasmine jumped out of the van and ran toward him. He hugged her while patting her on her back and never once took his eyes off mine while he stared over her shoulder.
It was the first time I had thought of myself, and now I realized I was in for a rough night. You just didn’t empty a gun into a person and go home and get a good night’s sleep with everyone’s blessings ringing in your ears. Self-defense was bad enough, but if they discovered I had plotted and planned in advance to murder him in cold blood, I might have a lifetime of rough nights.
With his arm around Jasmine, Hank walked to the truck window.
“Are you all right?”
“Sure,” I replied, and promptly burst into tears.
35
“Picking up the Pieces”
October 30, Monday, 7:00 A.M.
In the week since the shooting, I had tried to get back to a normal routine, but it was foolish of me to think that I could. I was sitting on my back porch with my third cup of coffee. The birds were flitting through the dying garden, and the last blooms of the early roses. Their chirping must be the same but it now sounded foreign, as if I had been in a time warp and returned incorrectly to a different planet.
I had seen more of my lawyer, Wade Bennett, this week than I had the entire time I had known him. He made daily visits to question, probe, and furnish uplifting comments. I knew he would do his very best for me, but after a week I was very sick of any mention of Bubba, the shooting, and the depositions that he was planning. I just wanted to go away and hide, but since that was out of the question, I just sat a lot and stared at the kennel across the courtyard.
Hank had walked us through the whole nightmare last Monday night, or early Tuesday morning, several times. I understood he was drilling us to make sure our stories matched and Jasmine and I could repeat our statements in our sleep. I was so tired of the repetitions that both Hank and his second-in-command, Lieutenant P. C. Sirmons, finally relented. Jasmine and I were being led to the van when Charlene Stevens drove up in a bright red Corvette.
I was so startled I stumbled into Hank and gave him a glowering stare.
Hardly moving his lips, he said under his breath, “Don’t say a word. I’ll handle this.”
Charlene had a wide smile as she strode toward us. Her nickname is the Barracuda, used only behind her back by all who have to deal with her. You would have to see her teeth to understand. Nice, large, even white teeth, the better-to-eat-you-with kind. She hated me with a purple passion. She had been seeing Hank occasionally when he and I began our brief affair. She hadn’t appreciated being dumped, and apparently I was still on her list.
“What are you doing here?” Hank asked her in a reasonable tone of voice.
“Why, Hank, you know I catch the first three nights of the week. Why didn’t you call me?”
“This isn’t a crime, Charlene. It’s self-defense. No charges, so your services are not required.”
“Don’t you think that the district attorney’s office should make that decision? You know that we are to be called for all homicides, even justified?”
“You thanked me when I didn’t get you out of bed for the Henderson shooting last week.”
“Well, that didn’t involve your girlfriend, did it?”
She hadn’t even glanced at me during their discussion. I was beneath consideration.
“I’ll just listen while you reconstruct the crime again for me.”
Charlotte’s eyes gleamed as she spoke. She was a true blond, short hair, slim as a pond weed, and two inches taller than I was. As a rising assistant DA working under district attorney Bobby Don Robbins, she was climbing the political ladder on Bobby Don’s back. He had been trying to protect his flank since Charlene had won her first case. He knew she was after his job.
We trudged back in and started telling the story again. When I mentioned that Randall Finch had brought me here, Charlene held up her hand for silence.
“Is this Randall Finch in custody?”
“Not yet,” Hank replied.
“Put out an APB on him at once,” she said, directing her command to P. C.
“It’s been on the air and wire since we first arrived,” P. C. reported.
She waved for Hank to continue. We finally finished, using the same words we had used in the first walkthrough. Jasmine and I were finally told to go home, but I knew that Charlene wouldn’t let it go. I proved to be correct.
Wade gave me daily reports on her actions. On Tuesday, Rand turned himself in, lawyer in tow. Charlene had obtained a deposition. Wade was still trying to find Rand to obtain one for our side. We both suspected
Charlene had advised him to vanish for a few days.
On Wednesday, Charlene had jumped over several cases waiting in the wings, and presented Bubba’s shooting to the grand jury. They dutifully returned the indictment that she requested, second-degree murder.
Hank was shocked and Wade was incensed. They both came to deliver this news. My guess was they didn’t relish telling me one on one. Hank had gone over Charlene’s head and appealed to Bobby Don.
“I should have known better, he’s got his nose up Sidden Senior’s ass. He’s afraid of the next election!”
Wade was pacing the floor and questioning Charlene’s lineage.
“That’s not helping, Wade,” I said quietly. “What happens next?”
Hank answered for him.
“Wade has assured me that you will turn yourself in on Friday at noon.”
“Why the wait?” I asked, directing my gaze at Wade.
“I’ve already requested a bond hearing. It won’t be heard until the Friday afternoon session. I don’t want you to have to sit in jail for two days.”
“Amen to that,” I replied dully.
Thursday morning early, Hank called.
“Charlene is on the warpath, she wants you incarcerated immediately. Get out of the compound until Friday noon. I’m on the way to serve the warrant, and Charlene insists on accompanying me. I can only stall for thirty minutes.”
I hit the panic button, and Wayne, Donnie Ray, and Jasmine came running. Donnie gassed up his truck while Wayne packed food and camping equipment and Jasmine filled an overnight bag. I made two phone calls, and was halfway to the Fargo landing before Hank and Charlene turned into Bloodhound Lane.
Entering Stephen Foster State Park, I turned off the tourist entrance and followed the small blacktop road that wound through planted pines, old growth, and thick brambles to the game warden’s residence, James Phelps. He was waiting on his screened porch and came down the steps to greet me.
“The only time I see you is when you want a favor,” he said gruffly.
I ignored his tone, threw my arms around him, and gave him a grateful hug. James is fifty-two now, has quite a bit of gray in his dark hair, and has added at least ten pounds since I had last seen him. Patrolling his area of the Okefenokee Swamp kept him looking capable and hardy.
He had helped me several years ago to keep Leroy Moore, my very best male friend and his cousin, out of a jam. I still owed him a big one.
He eyed my wraparound sunshades and the colorful bandanna covering my hair.
“I read about the indictment in yesterday’s Dunston County Daily News. This is a bad move, Jo Beth. You aren’t planning on taking up permanent residence on Billy’s Island, are you?”
I stepped back and flung out both arms to indicate the beauty around me.
“Don’t I wish! Just overnight, James. My lawyer wanted to set up a bail hearing, and I didn’t fancy spending the night in the slammer. It’s much nicer out here. I turn myself in at noon tomorrow.”
“Who’s this?” James squatted and began rubbing Bobby Lee’s ears.
“The best dog I have. Meet Bobby Lee.”
“Your guide came up to the porch about fifteen minutes ago,” he said, straightening. “Said his boat was tied up at my dock. Sure you can trust him? He looks like a poacher to me.”
I held back a smile.
“Which one came, the big one or the little one?”
“He was small, wouldn’t weigh a hundred and forty dripping wet—wait a minute here—he’s one of the Conner brothers? No wonder he looks like a poacher, both of them are!”
“His name is Ray. His brother Sam weighs two-fifty-plus. Calm down. They are rumored to be poachers. They’ve never been arrested. Where’s your sense of fair play?”
“That little twerp is not spending the night in my territory! I mean it, Jo Beth!”
“He isn’t planning to spend the night,” I soothed. “He’s just taking me to the island, and will fetch me in the morning and bring me back here in time for me to get to the courthouse by noon. Stop your fretting.”
James helped me carry my gear down to his small dock and stood glaring at Ray until we rounded a small promontory and were out of sight. As we unloaded, Ray finally asked.
“You told him my name?”
“Without knowing how popular you are. He’s heard rumors.”
We grinned at each other, and he left.
After I had set up camp, Bobby Lee and I explored the island for hours. I tried to imagine how it must have looked a hundred years ago. At that time, there were over twenty families living on this eight-mile island of marshes, bogs, and some fairly high ground. They farmed, hunted, fished, and lived completely off the land. They had chickens, cows, pigs, and goats, and grew their own food and silage for their livestock. Nothing was wasted. Chicken feathers made mattresses and pillows, tanned cowhides were the seats and backs for chairs. Wild honey for their table, berries for their pies and wine, corn for their moonshine, and a great bounty of venison, turkey, coon, wild hogs, bear, and possum.
In exploring, Bobby Lee and I spotted a few relics of the past, a tumbled chimney with bricks that fell apart in my hand, fragments of fence wire, and one broken dish, half submerged in dirt and water.
I had buried two ears of partially shucked corn and two Idaho bakers before I had built the fire on top of them. When we returned there were only hot coals left from the dead wood. I raked the coals back with a metal spoon and set the veggies aside to cool. I opened my short iron stand, and placed a cast-iron skillet directly above the coals. When the seasoned pan was hot, I added two large hamburger patties, which had thawed during the mild afternoon. As the meat cooked, I fed Bobby Lee a half-portion of dog food.
He raised his head often to stare at the sizzling meat and to breathe in the tantalizing smells, making sure to cast his eyes my way.
“Never fear, dear heart, half is yours as always.”
I broke up his hamburger to cool faster, and shucked both ears of corn, dividing them between us on the paper plates. I buttered my corn and added sour cream and chives to the potato.
Before I started eating, I put on a small pot of water for instant coffee. No food had ever tasted so good. Bobby Lee polished off his share, and lay contentedly across from me noisily sucking all the juice from the corncob. I removed it from his jaws before he decided to chew it up.
Bobby Lee sometimes acts as if he has psychic abilities. He moved to my side and laid his large head on my leg. He seemed to sense my distress. I had been looking longingly at my two true loves—my mysterious, beautiful swamp and him.
I explained to him why I was so sad. There was a good possibility I would have to leave him forever, and the swamp for a great chunk of the rest of my life. The penalty for murder in the second degree is fifteen years to life.
In the morning, after cooking bacon, eggs, and fried bread, I broke camp. Ray picked us up and deposited us on James’s dock. I borrowed Ray’s shower and dressed in a navy suit and heels. At noon I met Wade in front of the Sheriff’s Department.
He delivered me to Hank, who guided me through the fingerprinting and having my picture taken with a sign around my neck with large black numbers. I had to fight the impulse to stick out my tongue for my mug shot. Frivolity is frowned upon here. They were making this county safe from a dangerous person who had the audacity to kill a founding father’s son. I sometimes wonder about my stupidity. I should have secretly stalked the sucker and planted him in an unmarked grave. But being a borderline law-abiding citizen, I had still believed that the system would protect a woman being terrorized and promised an agonizing premature death. That was then. Now I know better.
I was numb as I awaited the judge’s entrance at the hearing, with Hank sitting on my left and Wade on my right. Sinclair Adams, my CPA, was seated directly behind me. He had patted my shoulder and gave me a smile. I saw he had his ever-present briefcase beside him. I wondered idly how much this fiasco would cost me. He had cashed in m
y tiny pile of assets, most of them prematurely, and arranged a second mortgage on my homestead just to scrape up bail money. My defense of a murder charge would not come cheap. I moved my anticipated retirement date at age fifty-five to seventy.
When a robed Constance Dalby entered the courtroom and sat on the bench, I lowered my head and spoke softly to Wade through gritted teeth.
“Christ, Wade, you requested her, didn’t you? You have just caused me to be assured of no bail.”
“Trust your lawyer, Sidden.”
“But you don’t—”
I shut up. I couldn’t tell him that I’d been blackmailing his favorite judge for several years now. He’d demand to know why. This I could never tell him. It would get his wife and me a long jail term for tax evasion. It seemed that all my chickens were coming home to roost.
Judge Dalby conferred with the clerk and we were called forward. Charlene, the barracuda, was already seated at the prosecutor’s table.
“This is a bail hearing for the defendant, Jo Beth Sidden. Counselor?”
“Your Honor, Ms. Sidden is a respected member of this community. She has lived her entire life here, and owns a thriving business. She works with local law enforcement finding lawbreakers with her bloodhounds, and rescuing her fellow citizens in distress. She is no flight risk. We ask that she be released on her own recognizance without bail until her trial.”
“Ms. Stevens?” Judge Dalby sounded bored.
“We request that bail be denied. This was a coldblooded murder, Your Honor. The victim was armed only with a baseball bat, and the defendant shot him six times in the chest. Her life was never in danger. Her response was excessive and uncalled for. The victim would never have hurt her, while she was holding a gun. She saw her chance to rid herself of an annoyance and deliberately murdered him. The defendant has no family ties here, and so little equity in her business, she is definitely a flight risk. If convicted, she faces at least fifteen years in prison. I ask for no bail.”
Ten Little Bloodhounds Page 24