Burying Daisy Doe

by Ramona Richards

  “What he promised was if I didn’t stick to my side of the street, I could lose my job. He didn’t name specifics, but we both knew what he meant. He also insisted I release your trailer so you could haul it out of here.”

  “Any reason you can’t clear it? You don’t have to bring in the cleaning crew. I’ve cleaned up a few crime scenes before. As they go, this one isn’t too bad.”

  “I took fingerprints off your door. Hoping I could find more than yours, mine, and Dean’s.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Not yet. But they aren’t back yet. It’s not like Pineville has a crime lab. Just the basics.”

  “Sometimes that’s all good cops need.”

  He snorted. “Were you thinking about bringing those boxes here?”

  “I’d thought about it, but now …”

  “Now they could easily wind up in the sheriff’s property room, if Patton takes a notion.”

  “Imajean wants to trade them out, one by one, so that I never have all of them at the same time. I’ll keep what I have in Gran’s safe.”

  “Good idea. Did you get anything more out of the first one? Because I know you stayed up until you went through all the envelopes.”

  “Of course I did! But there wasn’t anything else there that I didn’t already have in my files back home. Neither one of them signed the letters, but Daddy had kept a lot of the ones from Roscoe. I just didn’t know it was Roscoe. I’m hoping that Roscoe kept other items as well, in addition to the letters. I’ll call Imajean later today to see if I can set up a time to exchange the boxes.”

  “Good. I’ll work on getting your trailer released. Although I hate doing anything that’s going to make Jake Beason happy.”

  “Maybe he’ll put a good word in for you with the good mayor.”

  Mike snorted. “That’d be the day. Between you and me, the gossip has already spread about Patton’s visit to my house last night. The officers under my watch don’t like it. They’re starting to grumble, so I suspect they’ll have my back.”

  “Excellent. I’d hate to have to follow you to wherever you land a new job.”

  There was a beat of silence. “A new town might not have any cold cases for you.”

  “Small towns always have cold cases. I’m sure I’d find plenty to keep me busy. Just don’t think of going back up north.”

  “Never. I like living below the snow line. I like it where the weather is warm and the women sassy.”

  “Are you implying I’m sassy?”

  “Nope. Not implying. I’m saying it outright.”

  I laughed. “Can we solve this thing so we do this in person again?”

  “Sounds like a plan to me. Keep me updated.”

  “I’ll definitely keep you posted.”

  “And you watch your back.”

  “Always.”

  I ended the call with a long sigh. Mike Luinetti had definitely wormed his way into my heart. It was a complication I didn’t need, but at this moment, I cherished it. “Lord,” I whispered, “please don’t let me get him killed.”

  I pulled into a spot around the corner from the museum. As I crossed in front of the window, I stopped. At first I would have sworn that the Hall sisters had put a taxidermied bobcat on display. Then it turned its head and looked up at me. Large round eyes shone golden in the sunlight, and its mouth opened in a silent meow.

  I hurried inside, not even greeting the sisters as I trotted to the window’s display ledge. There, among the buckskin-covered mannequins, a rocking chair loaded with quilts, and an antique desk draped in maps, sat a particularly large Maine Coon cat. Its classic mackerel pattern of blue, red, cream, and brown blended perfectly with the sepias, blacks, and ivories of old furniture and papers.

  I held my hand out to it, palm down, fingers relaxed but curled under. “Well, hello. Who are you? Where did you come from?”

  It chirped in the way that Maine Coon cats did. It sniffed my hand, then head-butted it.

  I felt Claudia and Betsy behind me. “I knew y’all would get along,” Claudia said. “That’s Ratliff.”

  “Ratliff. Between him and Miss Snopes, you’ve got a little Faulkner hamlet going on.”

  Claudia chuckled. “Mr. Billy is one of our favorites, don’t you know.”

  “I can tell.”

  “It’s a family love. Ratliff belonged to our sister, Dinah,” Betsy replied. “We picked him up this weekend.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off Ratliff. I opened my hand, and he pressed the side of his face into it. I repaid him by scritching his jaw and throat, and his expression became blissful. “Let me guess. You found mice in among the antiques.”

  Claudia giggled. “Yep. First time in years I’ve heard Betsy scream.”

  “I did not scream. I yelped. I do not scream.”

  “You screamed.”

  “Well, this big boy will definitely be able to help. How big is he?” Ratliff stood up, stretched, and chirped at me. He put his paw on one arm, then leaned in toward my torso. I gave him a long, firm pet down his body. He was definitely one of the larger, more muscular cats I’d ever seen, even in his breed.

  Claudia bounced up on her toes. “Almost twenty-five pounds.”

  “A little over three feet, nose to tail.”

  I spoke to Ratliff, quoting one of my favorite posters from my childhood. “‘Love to eat them mousies,’ don’t you?”

  Ratliff raised up and put his front paws on my shoulders. He pressed his face into my cheek and rubbed his jaw against mine. I wrapped my arms around him and lifted. It was like picking up a small child. I faced Betsy and Claudia. “He’s a lovey.”

  They exchanged looks, then grinned.

  “You may have to help us with him,” Claudia said. “He’s almost too big for us to pick up.”

  Betsy looked at me over her glasses. “I can still pick up twenty-five pounds, you understand. It’s just a little harder when it’s a squirmy feline.”

  I set Ratliff down on the counter. “I suspect you won’t have to pick him up much.”

  “More like getting him down.” Claudia pointed to one of the higher shelves. “He likes high places.”

  “Most cats do. And it’s better for him to spot all the rodents.”

  “We just don’t want him pushing stuff off. Miss Snopes clears off our dresser almost every morning.”

  I laughed. “I expect he’ll adjust.” I stroked Ratliff again. “So what are we doing this morning?”

  Claudia pressed her palms together. “Oh, we have a surprise for you.”

  “Someone we want you to meet.” Betsy motioned for me to follow them down the center aisle. This time we didn’t detour toward the vault room but went straight back to the office. But as usual, the scent of old paper, leather, and dust made me sneeze.

  Claudia chuckled. “You’ll get used to it eventually.

  Originally a storage area and break room, the sisters had converted it into a two-person office and a kitchenette with a microwave and fridge. The usual desks, filing cabinets, and computers were joined by a couch, wingback chair, and small appliances.

  Essentially my first apartment. Except their sofa didn’t turn into a bed.

  On the sofa sat a diminutive man with steel-gray hair, rich brown eyes, a neat goatee, and dark-framed glasses. He forced himself to stand as we entered, leaning heavily on a dark cane topped by a silver wolf’s head. His navy blazer, khaki slacks, and loafers were impeccable, and his height was between mine and Betsy’s, probably five six or so. He extended his other hand to me as Betsy made the introductions.

  “Mr. Prentiss, this is Star O’Con—um—Star Cavanaugh. Star, this is Harold Prentiss. We’d heard that you wanted to meet him.”

  “Yes, I did.” I shook his hand. “My pleasure, Mr. Prentiss.”

  His grip was strong and sure. “All mine, Ms. Cavanaugh.” He motioned at the wingback. “Please have a seat.”

  I did, fighting the urge to sit as formally as Mr. Prentiss’s manner.

>   He lowered himself back onto the sofa, bracing firmly against the arm of it and his cane. “Please, feel free to call me Hal.”

  “And I’m Star.”

  Betsy and Claudia retreated behind their desks, as quiet as I’d ever known them to be.

  Hal settled, then peered at me. “I understand, Star, that you are looking into the sordid underbelly of Pineville’s past.”

  I cleared my throat. “Um. Yes sir.”

  He nodded. “It gets pretty gritty.”

  “They killed my grandmother. And my father.”

  “Yes, they did.”

  “Do you have any idea why?”

  Another nod. “Star, many people who were alive at that time know what happened. A lot of them are dying to talk to you. But they are too terrified, still, to cross the people involved.”

  “You aren’t?”

  “I did two tours in Vietnam and saw the fall of Saigon. Also went to Grenada and Panama. Was a mercenary for a while after that. I have cancer and cirrhosis, a fused spine, and a hip that has more screws than an erector set. I’ve wanted to talk about it for years. It’s just that no one wanted to listen. My question is, are you ready to hear? It’s not pretty. And it may not be what you want to hear.”

  I hesitated. This was exactly what I wanted—and it may be exactly what I was afraid of when I started this. The complete tarnishing of the golden figures who lived in my head. The harsh reality of the romanticized story.

  I leaned forward, focusing on his face. “Tell me everything.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Pineville, Alabama, 1984

  ROSCOE ROLLED OVER on his side and spit. A molar came out with the stream of saliva and blood. Another foot slammed into his back, and he felt like his kidneys would burst. He bellowed, the pain rocking through him.

  The old man leaned over, his face only inches from Roscoe, his skin gray and sallow in the moonlight. “It was you, wasn’t it, boy? You’re the one who betrayed us.”

  The face vanished, and Roscoe squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the next blow.

  Like the Klan reborn.

  Roscoe and his family had just finished dinner, a cool breeze through the open windows dissipating the heat of the stove. They’d heard the truck pull into the drive but didn’t think too much about it. They’d had a lot of visitors since William’s death.

  Then the old man and two of his goons shoved through the back door and grabbed Roscoe, dragging him away from the dinner table and out into the yard. He could still hear the screams of Maybelle, Juanita, and the kids ringing in his ears. Roscoe had tried to resist, but he wasn’t a fighter, not since ’Nam, and the two goons had pounded him immediately—face, back, groin, head—until Roscoe’s body was nothing but fire and pain. He struggled for each gasping breath, his chest throbbing with an ever-tightening pain. His swollen tongue tasted like dirt and blood.

  The old man’s voice, however, found a new place of pain. “Get in the house. Shut those kids up.”

  “No!” Roscoe’s was a harsh croak.

  Abner leaned over him again. “This is your fault. You took my son. Whatever happens to them, this is on you. Chris told me before they left. Told me William wanted out of that run. Thought it was too much for him. Claimed he couldn’t handle a big rig if things got tough. But that boy had driven everything from a pickup to a bulldozer. I knew it. Chris knew it. He just wanted out. Only one reason for that. He knew the feds had the info. Only one way he could know that. He knew who’d given it to them. You.” The old man punched him, his bony fist landing hard on the side of Roscoe’s neck.

  “I didn’t! I swear!”

  Roscoe barely got the words out when the screams in the house escalated. He could hear Imajean’s piercing wail, Maybelle’s terrified shrieks, and Juanita’s bellowing alto, bringing down the wrath of God on the men. His faithful bride. His love through all of it. Harsh male commands sounded through the windows followed by two gunshots.

  The house went silent. The screen door slammed.

  “This,” the old man hissed. “This is on you. All of it on you. You took my son. Never forget that. Because I know I won’t.”

  Roscoe’s eyes had finally swollen shut. Every tiny movement sent reams of pain through him. But he could still hear.

  The three men walked away. There was the sound of a pickup with a bad muffler starting up. Tires on gravel and an engine that needed a tune-up.

  Inside the house, the screams had been replaced by racking sobs. Then Roscoe heard Maybelle on the phone calling the police.

  Like the police would do anything. Like they could do anything. Except bring the coroner.

  Roscoe curled into a fetal position, waiting to die. Hoping to die. Because the one voice he could not hear from inside the house was Juanita.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Pineville, Alabama, Present Day

  HAL PRENTISS DID not mince words. “Pineville sent twenty-two boys to Vietnam. Seven came home. One ate his gun, one disappeared, presumed murdered. Two moved to huts on the ‘Forgotten Coast’ down off Highway 98, and one functions with less than a full deck on good days. That left Roscoe and me, and a sad lot we were.”

  Betsy Hall got up from her desk and sat down next to Hal on the couch. He patted her arm, then took her hand. My eyebrows went up, and she blushed as if she were fourteen. “We went out in high school.”

  Hal gazed at her fondly. “Betsy here tried to save my soul. She failed. I coped with the aftermath of war by involving myself in a whole lot of other wars.” Hal turned back to me. “By the time I got back here permanently, the events you’re investigating were over and done with. The syndicate shut down the primary criminal activity, and all that was left were the scars, the general corruption, and an ingrained political dynasty that may never be uprooted. Too many of the people still in power hold all the secrets. It could literally shut down almost every business in town. And people still disappear when they talk.”

  I stared at him. “That widespread?”

  He nodded. “Passed down through the generations. You know Ed?”

  “Owns the hardware store.”

  Another nod. “Ed is as upright and honest as they come. But his father got trapped in a scheme that would have sent him to prison. Blackmailed into being a part of it. Anyone who didn’t cooperate found themselves burned out … or they just disappeared. That hardware store was built on that scheme. If it came to light today and the authorities could prove it’s the result of a criminal enterprise …”

  I understood. “Ed could still lose it.”

  “Or vanish.”

  Betsy’s face lost color, and she looked at Claudia. “Sister?”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” Claudia whispered.

  Hal squeezed Betsy’s hand, his gaze on her face. “Not everyone was involved. But a lot were.” He focused on me again. “My father, Isaiah, ran the bank over in Carterton. When it all collapsed, he called me, asked me to come home for a while to watch out for my mother. They were both terrified they’d get caught up in it. They knew what was going on over here and had stayed alert and cautious about their business. That’s why I know so much about it. After your father was killed, my father had Secret Service agents swarming all over the place.”

  “Looking for counterfeit money.”

  “Correct. But they found nothing. Not there. Not here. After the accident, after the murders, the syndicate cleaned everything out. All evidence of any racketeering, conspiracy, counterfeiting, smuggling, whatever they were into, all of it vanished within forty-eight hours. The town appeared spotless by the time the feds could react. And because of who all was involved, no one would dare speak up, even if they had proof. No one wanted to lose what they had. With the major part of the criminal activity—the smuggling and the counterfeiting—shut down, everyone thought it would all settle down and go away. They desperately wanted life to go back to some sense of normalcy. And in some ways, it did.”

  “Except there’s no stat
ute of limitation on those crimes.”

  He pointed at me. “Bingo. Even with no activity, if proof were discovered today, there would be a lot of consequences. So there is a lot of motive to keep you shut out and to keep the townsfolk who know silent.”

  “But was it truly shut down? Or just on hiatus?”

  Hal had a crooked smile and a wicked twinkle in his eye. “Who knows for sure? If there is still activity, it is deep underground.”

  “So who was responsible? Who was the ‘they’ I keep hearing about? And what accident?”

  Hal looked down for a moment. “Star, you ever read Carl Sagan?”

  I knew where he was going. “Knowing something is not the same as being able to prove it. Sagan expressed it as ‘Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.’”

  “And what I’m about to say is a pretty extraordinary claim.”

  “Without proof.”

  “None whatsoever. And the information I have came primarily from my father and a Secret Service agent who probably said more than he should, trying to pry information from my father. They were in a fine feather, determined to find the root of everything because they’d lost one of their own.”

  “Alex Trawler.”

  “Exactly. Who apparently was a good agent who underestimated the lethal nature of the rubes he was dealing with.”

  I understood that all too well. “Probably thinking that, like the Mafia of the time, they wouldn’t kill a cop. Or a federal agent.”

  “Precisely. And miscalculating exactly how tightly the town could circle its wagons and turn the guns outward. Even to this day.”

  Betsy straightened and glanced at her sister. Claudia nodded, then Betsy spoke. “Star, when we heard why you were here, we prayed you could finally bring all this to a close. Even if some of the main players are already dead, a lot of us still live in fear, live with the idea that if we step out of bounds, we could be in for a world of hurt. It’s going to take someone from outside, who doesn’t have to live here, to break it open.”

  I watched Hal, whose face had been calm, almost impassive. Now he grimaced as he shifted on the couch, his eyes reflecting the obvious pain he was in. He rocked his hips side to side, searching for a more comfortable position. Finally he settled, draped his cane over the arm of the chair, and put both feet flat on the floor. He was ready to talk.