Then, I spotted Whitaker coming out the front door. Only, instead of starting on his morning walk, he walked over to the carport, looked around and ducked through the fence gate leading to the backyard. What’s he up to? I came around the hedge and glanced nervously about before scurrying across Margie’s front lawn, stopping short of the fence that separated the front yard from the back. Not hearing anything, I quietly slipped through the gate and inched my way toward a group of bushes, crouched down and peered through the branches. I held my breath and watched as Whitaker made his way toward Margie’s storage shed. Then he did something totally unexpected. He pulled out a set of keys and inserted one into the door’s padlock and, in a flash, was inside the little building.
I waited and watched until the sound of Hawk’s motorcycle announced his pending arrival. Whitaker must have heard it, too, because all of a sudden, he darted out of the little building, replacing the lock and pocketing the keys before leaping over the back portion of the fence and taking off down the alley.
I stood upright and made my way to the carport just as Hawk was dismounting his bike.
“Hey, darlin’. Didn’t expect to see you this morning. Looking for me?”
“No. I was here looking for John Whitaker.”
He bristled. “Told you I’d check into him.”
I shrugged, my eyes sliding toward his bike.
“I was just at the diner,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “Chatting it up with the local farmers over coffee. Talked to Jack Snyder and had an interesting chat with that young deputy the sheriff’s got.”
“Really?” I was all ears. “What’d you find out?”
“Not a whole lot, actually. Most of the farmers seem to think Clem was going a bit overboard on the election thing. Said he had it out for Margie and spent most of his time bad-mouthing her around town. As far as the ‘secret’”—he made a double quote sign with his fingers—“a couple of the guys thought Clem hired a private investigator and got it from him. Others said he got his information from the sheriff.”
“The sheriff? Why?”
Hawk shrugged. “Just some talk that’s going around.”
I mulled that over before asking, “So they think Margie’s secret has to do with some sort of criminal activity?” I’d assumed the secret had personal implications, like maybe in a previous life Margie had worked as an exotic dancer or whatever. But never something that would have involved the law. “Do you know what her secret is? I mean, she’s your client, right?”
He shook his head. “Afraid not. She won’t say. I did a brief background search, something I do on all my clients just because I want to know who I’m working for. But I really couldn’t find anything on Ms. Price. Thought I’d check around a little more, though. Not that I don’t trust her. Just that whatever happened in her past might have some bearing on this case.”
I agreed. “My guess is that Clem probably hired an investigator. I mean, I can’t really see the sheriff giving that type of information to Clem. She could lose her job over something like that.”
Hawk pressed his lips together and tilted his head. “Who knows? I’m not overly fond of your sheriff, but all that does seem a bit far-fetched. Even for her.”
“And Jack Snyder. What’s your take on him?”
“Talked to him for a while. Guess there’s some sort of rule in your town charter about getting a specific number of petition signatures before running for mayor, but he’s too late for that, so he’s getting around that rule by running a write-in campaign. Seems to have quite a bit of support from the farmers. Of course, with all the suspicion surrounding Margie, he’s probably a shoo-in for the position.”
“Awfully convenient, don’t you think?”
Hawk nodded. “Yup. You got that right.”
“You said you talked to Travis. Did he give up any information?” Travis was probably the youngest deputy in the county. A homegrown boy who’d studied criminal justice at Central Georgia Tech up in Macon. Since he’d started with the department, Maudy had taken him under her wing, showing him the ropes and giving him a myriad of responsibilities. If I hadn’t known better, I’d think she felt motherly toward him. Then again, this was Maudy we were talking about. She’d be the type of mother that ate her young.
“Unless you’re interested in turbo diesel V8 engines and high-performance transmissions, I didn’t learn a darn thing from the kid.”
“Engines and transmissions. What are you talking about?”
Hawk chuckled. “He just recently bought himself a brand-new truck. You’d think the thing was some hot chick the way he talked about it.”
Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Hawk could barely keep his head screwed on straight when our local nail tech and hot chick, Laney Burns, was around. “Great,” I said, letting out a disgusted sigh. Hot chicks, big trucks . . . some men are so easily distracted. “That means he won’t be focused much on his job. Did you find out anything else?”
“Nope. That’s about it.”
I proceeded to tell him what I’d seen in the backyard. “It was the strangest thing,” I concluded. “What reason would Whitaker possibly have for snooping around in Margie’s potting shed? We should probably tell Margie right away, huh?”
“Let me talk to her. It could be that she knows all about it.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he has her permission to store something out there?”
I furrowed my brows, thinking if that was the case, he wouldn’t have waited until the house was empty and then run off when he heard someone arriving. But, I supposed Hawk had a point. We should check with Margie first.
Hawk went on, “I’m just saying we shouldn’t just jump to conclusions. We need a little more information. And just because the guy’s weird, or snoopy, it doesn’t make him a killer. Does there seem to be any connection between him and Clem?”
“No, not that I’ve heard. But I’ll keep checking around.” I hesitated, wondering if I should tell Hawk about the handkerchief. Ever since finding out about it, I’d become filled with dread. Probably because I knew the town’s blabbermouths would have a heyday spreading around the implication of Mama’s handkerchief in Clem’s sheets. I should probably wait to tell Hawk, too. The fewer people who knew, the better . . .
“Nola?”
“Hum? What?”
“What is it you’re not telling me? And don’t bother to say it’s nothing. I can tell by the look on your face that you’re hiding something. Care to tell me what it is?”
I shook my head. Mama always did say that I wore my emotions like a mask. “No. Maybe later. It’s personal. And something that I need to figure out for myself first.”
“Typical Nola.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “Just seems you always have something you’re hiding in that pretty little head of yours.”
He winked and I bristled. What does he mean by that? Could he know? No. No way. I shook off the idea. Hawk probably didn’t even remember that night we’d shared all those years ago. If he did, he only remembered it as a tiny blip in what was probably a long line of sexual conquests. And as far as the pregnancy and the unfortunate miscarriage soon after, I’d never breathed a word of it to him. The few people who did know—Hattie and, just recently, Ida and Cade—well, they’d never betray my trust. I breathed easier. Just my imagination running away from me.
Hawk blew out his breath and glanced at his watch. “Never mind. I’m sure you’d tell me if it was something important. I’d better get going now. I’ve got plans for this morning.”
“Another lead?”
A slow grin broke over his face. “Laney’s got the morning off and wants me to take her up to Macon to this bike dealer I know. She’s thinking about getting her own bike and taking up riding.”
I nodded politely, or perhaps I mumbled something, I can’t remember. I was dumb
founded by the fact that he was taking time off from the case already, just when leads were coming through. Case in point: some men are easily distracted.
* * *
A little before ten, I met Carla in front of Peachy Keen. She was looking a little fuzzy around the edges. “Out late again?” I asked, opening the door and motioning for her to go in ahead of me. The frayed bottoms of her too-long jeans scraped the floor as she crossed the threshold, but I happily noticed she’d neglected to insert the long silver arrow that usually pierced the outer cartilage of her ear. On more than one occasion, I’d caught customers staring at it with a curiously disgusted look.
“Went with some friends to the Honky Tonk last night,” she replied. “There was a new band playing.” Before putting her bag under the counter, she pulled out an energy drink and popped the top. “They were great. Had the place rocking all night.”
“How’d you get in the door? Don’t you have to be twenty-one?”
She shook her head and took a swig. “Naw. The owner’s cool about it.”
Cool, huh? I wondered if he was also serving drinks to minors, but I didn’t probe her about it. That was her aunt’s job, after all. Still, I couldn’t help but worry about the crowd Carla was hanging with these days.
“I’ll check for orders,” she said, pulling out the store’s laptop while I ducked into the restroom for a quick change. I emerged a few minutes later wearing my usual cargo pants and Peachy Keen T-shirt and found her setting out supplies for baskets.
“Two Hot Jams! And three Son of a Peach! baskets,” she said. “Baskets are really selling, don’t you think?” I nodded, and she continued, “I’m wondering . . . with Christmas right around the corner, maybe we should try to come up with a few more themed baskets. Maybe a couple other things, too. Give the online customers more to choose from.”
“Sure.” She was right. I’d been meaning to expand my online order form, but just hadn’t got around to it yet.
I busied myself counting bills into the cash register, having to backtrack a couple times after I lost count. My mind was reeling with unanswered questions and possible suspects, making it difficult to focus on my work.
“Well, I came up with a couple ideas,” I heard her say a few minutes later. “Thought I’d run them by you, but maybe now’s not a good time.”
I shut the cash drawer and turned her way. “Why’s that?”
“It seems you’re in a bad mood or something.”
I sighed and shook my head. “No, I’ve just got a lot on my mind with . . . with everything that’s been going on.”
She dipped her chin and softened her voice. “You mean the murder. Is the sheriff still after your father?”
“Afraid so.” I quickly glanced over the shop, then back at her. “I hate to ask this of you, but do you suppose you could take over here? Just for a few hours. I have some things I need to do.”
Her face lit up. “You bet! Just tell me what needs to be done.”
I started filling her in on a few of the extra responsibilities. “First priority is the customers, of course. But if you have some free time, you could run an inventory count.” I pulled out the clipboard with my inventory spreadsheet. “I already have an inventory of what’s in the storage room; I just need a quick count of what’s on the shelves. I’ll need to know what we’re running low on so I can make out a shopping list.”
She smiled and took the clipboard. “No problem.”
“Oh, and I noticed we’re almost out of wrapping tissue and bags. There’s extra in the storage closet; would you mind restocking under the counter?”
“Sure thing, boss. And don’t worry about a thing. I can handle this.” Any reservations I had about putting my responsibilities on her were squelched by the eager look on her face.
“I know you can,” I told her. Carla was a whiz with numbers and handled even the crankiest customers with ease. Now she was showing some creative initiative, too. I only wished she could believe in herself enough to stay away from the bad influences. “I’ll be back just before closing. We’ll talk about your ideas then. I’m anxious to hear what you’ve come up with.”
Just before walking out the door, I glanced back to see her already busy assembling baskets, humming to herself as she worked. It was the happiest I’d seen her in days. Maybe a little extra responsibility was just what she needed.
* * *
My first stop had nothing to do with the case, but everything to do with my stomach. Certainly a little sugar and caffeine fortification was just the thing to get me started. So, I hoofed it down the street to Sugar’s Bakery, swinging the door open and stopping short at the sight of Maudy Payne. Her back was to me as she bent over the pastry case, her khaki-clad bottom sticking out like an overblown chewing gum bubble.
Ezra’s eyes met mine, but before he could call out a greeting, I held a finger to my lips and started backtracking. Maudy hadn’t seen me yet. There was still time to escape.
Only right behind me came Candace from the bank. “Nola Mae! How are you, sweetie? What’s wrong? You act like you don’t know if you’re comin’ or goin’.” Maudy wheeled around and glared at me. Behind her back, Ezra mouthed, Sorry.
I tried to ignore the look Maudy was giving me and instead turned to Candace. “Hello, Candace. How are things at the bank this morning?”
Notice I didn’t ask how she was personally doing. You see, Candace works for my brother-in-law, Hollis, at the bank. And while she’s a wonderful person and a terrific worker, she’s a bit of a hypochondriac and loves nothing better than to talk about her various ailments, in detail. Lots of detail.
“Well, things at the bank are just fine. Wish I could say the same for myself, though.” She gripped the back of her hip. “My bursitis has been actin’ up somethin’ awful. Why, Doc Harris sent me all the way over to Columbus to see a specialist the other day. But that man was no help. . . .” She paused and drew in a deep breath.
“I’m so sorry to hear that. I was, ahh . . .” I said, jumping in to steer the conversation to something else, only for the life of me, I couldn’t think of what that would be.
Before I could get anything out, Candace started in again. “Oh, forgive me, Nola. Here I am going on about my troubles, when I hear y’all are having plenty of your own. I was just shocked to hear about . . .” She glanced up at the sheriff and bit her lip. Then, reaching over to pat my shoulder, she added, “Just know that I’ve added y’all to my prayer list.”
I stiffened. The sheriff sniggered.
“Thank you, Candace,” I said politely. Although I wasn’t sure if she was praying for us because she thought we were all a bunch of sinners in need of the good Lord’s redemption or because she thought Daddy needed divine intervention to get out from under Maudy Payne’s dogged pursuit.
Ezra cleared his throat and tapped on his pastry case. “Scones just came out of the oven not more than twenty minutes ago. Who’d like one?” My best bet was to get my scones and get the heck out of there. “I’ll take two, please,” I said to Ezra.
“Same for me,” the sheriff said. “And a cup of coffee. Black.” Her eyes homed in on me as she added, “Don’t be running off, you hear? I’ve got a couple questions for you.”
As I fished in my pocket and handed over a crumpled bill, I could feel little prickles of sweat forming on the back of my neck. Probably caused by Maudy’s hot breath bearing down on me. “Sure,” I replied, taking my change and thanking Ezra. “I’ll meet you outside, then.”
Candace shot me another sympathetic look as I bid her good-bye and headed out to the sidewalk to wait for Maudy. She came out a second later, already munching on a scone. “Evidence is stacking up against your daddy,” she started, swiping the back of her hand across her lips.
“You said you had a question?”
“You’re pretty familiar with the day-to-day operations out at your daddy’s
farm, right?”
“Right.”
She wiped at her mouth again. “You use diesel fuel out there?”
“Yeah.” It dawned on me what she was saying. Diesel must have been used as the accelerant to burn Clem’s barn. “So do most of the farmers in the area,” I quickly added.
“I guess you know my crime scene guys have been back out working the scene.”
I shrugged.
“Thing is, they’ve found something interesting.”
“I already know about the handkerchief, Maudy. I’m telling you, someone had to have planted that. There’s no way my mama and Clem Rogers were . . .” I hesitated as Candace came out of Sugar’s and passed by with a concerned look. I forced a smile and waited until she was out of earshot. “It’s just not possible,” I reiterated in a low voice.
“That’s debatable, but that’s not what I was talking about.” She reached into her front shirt pocket and pulled out a snapshot. “One of my guys found this in the ditch not far from the turnoff to Clem’s place. Look familiar?”
I glanced at the photo and swallowed hard. “It’s just a gas can. Lots of people have those.” Only it looked just like one of the gas cans we kept in our barn—a red metal five-gallon can with a lightning bolt. A vintage collectible to most people, but still serviceable by my daddy’s standards, and frequently used. I squirmed under her watchful eye, my expression undoubtedly confirming her hunch that it was our gas can. I really did need to work on my poker face.
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