Burying Daisy Doe

by Ramona Richards

  JoeLee slowly picked up the glass of tea and downed the last half of it. As he set it down again, he cleared his throat. “Are you telling me that your father was not here last week when those two farmhands found the bodies? Wasn’t up at the crack of dawn like normal, out working?”

  “Nope. In Birmingham. Staying with Mama’s sister. The one married to the big preacherman. The one who’s got the ear of the TV folks these days. Those two who found the bodies were men we had looking after the animals. Probably a good thing they were still coming around or those boys might not ever have been discovered.”

  JoeLee stared at Roscoe a few moments, then smiled slowly. “Good thing, that, huh?” He wormed his way out of the rocker and stood up. He walked to the steps, then looked back, all cynicism gone from his voice. “Roscoe, be careful. Ellis is fit to be tied about his daddy and the way everything has fallen apart. He’s going to be looking for someone to blame.”

  “And you know they ain’t got nobody to blame but themselves.”

  “Just be careful. And you might want to put some distance between you and him.” He glanced at the screen door. “Tell your mama that was some mighty good sweet tea.”

  “She makes the best.”

  JoeLee strolled beyond his car and snagged the tattered remains of the yellow tape. He rolled up the pieces and tossed them in his passenger seat as he squeezed behind the wheel. He drove out, and Roscoe leaned back in his chair, energy draining from him. He considered for a moment the wisdom of getting out of town for a while, then rejected it. His parents needed him here.

  But another thought nagged him, something that Abner had said, as well as JoeLee. The questions about his father being out working when those men’s bodies had been dumped. Someone was using his father as an excuse, but there was way too much proof his father had been in Birmingham when that happened. He dearly hoped this would come back to haunt them—and soon.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Pineville, Alabama, Present Day

  “HIGHER, DADDY!”

  He pushed the swing harder, making me arc so high that the swing chains bowed and went a little slack. I giggled, but he caught me on the return arc and stopped the swing. I pouted, but he grabbed me up and spun and held me tightly against his chest. I snuggled into his shoulder as he sat down at the picnic table.

  He smelled so good. Like Daddy. Sweat and peppermint and Old Spice. Mama would tease him any time those sailor commercials came on TV. Unshaven, he tickled me by nuzzling his face into my neck, and I squealed.

  “See, peanut, some things don’t have to change.”

  “But we’re leaving our friends!”

  “And going to a lot of other friends.”

  I sulked. “I don’t know them yet.”

  “You will. And God will take care of you, just like he does me and your mama.” He put his face close to mine and whispered, “You are special. You are strong and smart. You love adventures and going higher. You are going to have a lot of change in your life, and every single change will be for the better. It’ll all be just like going higher.”

  “What if I fall?”

  “We all fall sometimes. And we all get up and start again. It’s not about the falling. It’s all about getting up and doing it again.”

  I jerked, and the cat looked up at me, annoyed. I’d had a dozen dreams overnight that caused me to disturb the cat’s slumber, but it never left my lap. Some of the dreams seemed more like visions or hallucinations while I was half awake, making me wonder how long before I really lost it. And I’d developed complete sympathy for Abigail Hall, whose abandonment here had altered her reality forever.

  Please, Lord, not three days.

  Dawn passed from blue to pale yellow, and the first golden rays poked through the leaves, bouncing over both of us as a light breeze stirred the trees. The cat yawned, extended all four legs in different directions, and rolled over onto its back. When no belly rub was forthcoming, it got up, stretched its front legs again, and trotted off. Time for breakfast. I tried to stretch my legs as well and only succeeded in launching a charley horse in my right calf, which left me squirming and screeching behind the tape. Which had an abrupt, and interesting, effect.

  Duct tape sticks to skin like nothing else. Forget what’s seen on television. Well-applied duct tape can remove the epidermis if yanked off. What it doesn’t like, however, is oil. And makeup. Or in my case, oily skin covered in makeup. I produce enough oil on my face every night to top off my Carryall in hard times. When I screeched in pain, the tape closest to the edge of my mouth popped free.

  I sat still for a moment, not quite believing what I felt. My mouth had collected a little saliva in the night, and I let myself drool, pushing the liquid out with my tongue and exploring the area that had pulled loose.

  Strange what odd little things could produce a jolt of hope.

  I turned my head and rubbed the tape as hard as I could against my left bicep. Slowly, as oil from my skin worked in under the tape, it began to slip. Just a little at first, with a pull and tug that made my skin burn and itch. Then a little more. Finally, the still-sticky edge caught on the cloth of my sleeve, and I gradually worked the tape off my left cheek. It dropped away, hanging from the right side of my face.

  I caught my breath, trying to calm my excitement. Noise meant nothing if it went unheard. Still … hope bloomed in my chest. I took a deep breath and I screamed, a bellow as long and loud as I could make it. Then I listened. Nothing.

  I waited, counting off ten minutes. I knew my voice wouldn’t hold out long, not as dry as my throat was. But I had to try. Birds scattered out of the trees with the first and second screams, and a squirrel scolded me fiercely with number three. Then came number four. And in the silence that followed, I heard a faint voice. Then another.

  “Did you hear something?”

  Young, male. What were they doing out this early? I didn’t care.

  “No. Hush. You’re scaring the fish.”

  Also male. Older. Fishing. On the creek? I screamed again, this time with a word: Help.

  At first there was just silence, then came the first voice again, still closer. “Hello? Is someone there?”

  I smothered a nervous giggle. “Hello! Can you hear me?”

  A pause. Then, “Yes! Where are you?” It was louder this time.

  I called back, speaking slowly. “I need help! Please call 911! Tell them I’m at the end of the Carver’s field road. Please!”

  The voices were closer now, and I heard the distinctive bump of wood on metal. Then a splash. A boat. They were on the creek. I prayed furiously that they had their cell phones with them.

  “Who are you?” The second voice, closer. We no longer had to shout.

  “My name is Star! Please call them.”

  Silence, and I found myself praying they weren’t some of the people responsible for me being here in the first place. Then finally I heard the first voice, firmer this time.

  “Yes, we’re fishing on Canoe Creek, and we hear someone calling for help. She says her name is Star and that she’s at the end of the Carver field road. Does that make sense to you? Oh! OK.” Another moment of silence passed, then he said, “Star?”

  “Yes!”

  “They’re on the way.”

  Hallelujah.

  “Thank you, God,” I whispered. For a cat. And a boat. Miracles.

  Dehydration. Contusions. Mild concussion. Ultrasounds on hands, arms, legs, and feet to check for blood clots. IV fluids. Broth. Eventually, toast.

  I felt like a balloon leaking air. An extremely sore, grouchy balloon.

  Mike hovered. He’d been on duty when the call came in and had led the ambulance down the rutted field road. He’d cut my bonds and helped lift me onto the gurney. I couldn’t stand; I couldn’t even feel my feet or hands. Then as the blood flow resumed and the nerves woke up, the electric shocks shot through me, and I screamed, twisting under the belts of the gurney. Massages helped, but I was an absolute mess. I
hadn’t really cried since I’d regained consciousness from the attack. In the ambulance, I sobbed like a child.

  In the coolness of the hospital room, normalcy returned slowly. I would be sore for several days, complete with headaches and dizziness. But nothing was broken. No permanent damage. At least to my body. With a second meal of broth and toast warming my tummy, I sat up in the bed, leaning heavily against the pillows on the upraised head of it. I told Mike everything I could remember, but I’d been blindsided. I’d neither seen nor heard anyone come up behind me. That was when the really bad news hit.

  “Star, your truck and trailer are gone.”

  I stared at him. “Gone? What do you mean gone?”

  Mike paced again, from the door to the window and back. “Meaning the Carryall pulling the trailer left Doc’s yard about the time of your attack. We thought you’d left to take it back to Birmingham because of Ellis’s order.”

  “What about my cell phone? It went flying when I was hit.”

  “They probably grabbed it, threw it in the truck. It’s not in Doc’s back yard. No one thought you were missing until your friend Darius tracked me down.”

  Darius? Right. “I was on the phone with him.”

  Mike paused at the window, glanced out, then back at me. “He heard the attack.”

  “What?” I grabbed the rails of the bed and pulled myself a little higher. “What did he hear?”

  “Your scream, for one. Lots of thumps and bumps, scrambling, then the call went dead. He knew something was up. Started trying to get in touch with law enforcement in Pineville, but it took a while for him to get through to me. Then when you didn’t show up at your grandmother’s last night, she called every half hour. We’ve been looking for you all night. I had a BOLO out on the Carryall. And you.” Another glance out the window, then he started to pace again. “But no one had seen anything, until the 911 call came through.”

  “I’m surprised it didn’t go into the sheriff’s office instead of your office.”

  “Luck of the draw. The creek is the jurisdictional border.”

  I watched him fidget and pace, back and forth, looking at the window. Whatever had his nerves turned inside out had nothing to do with jurisdiction. In fact, the hospital in Gadsden was even in a different county.

  “Did Ellis order you off this case too?”

  He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Said Darius didn’t know what he was talking about. That you’d obviously just up and left. And even if you hadn’t, it wouldn’t be a case for at least forty-eight hours. Even then, kidnapping would be a federal case.”

  “Doesn’t know much about the law, does he?”

  “His legal knowledge all comes from reruns of Car 54.” He hesitated, then muttered, “But he knows about other things.” He walked back to the window and stared out through the blinds.

  I had to ask it. “Mike, does this have anything to do with Jessica Carter?”

  Mike continued to stare out at the parking lot in absolute silence. Nothing moved. I wasn’t even sure he breathed. I waited.

  After several minutes passed, he looked at me. “What?”

  “You’re prancing around like a bug in hot ashes, and you keep looking out the window as if aliens had landed in the parking lot. This is more than about my attack.”

  “How do you even know about Jessica Carter?”

  “Miss Doris mentioned that something in your past tied you to this place. I got curious.”

  “Doris Rankin doesn’t know the details. Betsy?”

  I nodded. “What happened?”

  He hesitated, then his shoulders sagged. He sat on the end of the bed, and I drew my legs up to make room as his words cascaded out. “Jess and I dated twice. Seemed like a sweet girl. I’d seen her around town for a few weeks, and there aren’t many women in town that I don’t already know. Then I made the mistake of mentioning to Ellis I thought it was time to move on, expand my skills in a larger market. The next night, I find Jess in my bed, unconscious and bloody. I call 911, get her to the hospital, where they tell me her blood alcohol level was twice the legal limit and her body appears to have been put through some rough sex games, if not rape. She’d been choked and had two broken ribs. She woke up, became hysterical, couldn’t remember any of it but knew it had to have been me because she’d never sleep with anyone else.” He paused to catch a breath.

  “Let me guess. You’d never slept with her either.”

  “No! We’d only gone out twice. We hadn’t even gotten around to discussing a future relationship.”

  “But since she had been unconscious …”

  He nodded, staring at the floor. “The sheriff started talking about assault and rape charges. Not his fault. He’d have no choice.”

  “Which would have ruined your career.”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “And Ellis said he’d make it all go away.”

  His head snapped up. “How—”

  “I was married to an Ellis type. I know how they work. Pictures? Video? Some guy in a police uniform?”

  No response. He simply stared at me.

  “Everyone here knows you’re innocent. Not so much a potential employer.”

  A single nod.

  “What happened to Jessica?”

  Mike glanced away from me, his gaze turning into a thousand-yard stare. “They told me she tried to kill herself. That she’s been in Bryce ever since.”

  “Psychiatric commitment.” A twinge of a thought plucked at the back of my mind, but I couldn’t pull it forward. Maybe later …

  “Because of me.”

  I coughed, jerked back to the conversation. “Uh, no. Because Ellis Patton is a demon who can’t bear to lose control of the slightest element in his world. But no one here can do anything about it.”

  “He keeps them terrified.”

  “Whereas I am a private investigator specializing in cold cases, and I consider him a mad dog who needs to be put down.”

  He looked at me again, and a smile played around the corner of his mouth. “You would help me?”

  “I do believe I owe you my life.”

  “I suspect you owe that to God.”

  “Him too.” I told him about the cat. “It was weird, it coming out of nowhere like that. But it really did save me. And part of me thinks it was one of God’s little miracles that Gran keeps telling me about.”

  “I can believe it. I depend on those almost every day.” Mike reached for my hand. “Although I am wondering why they didn’t kill you when they had the chance.”

  “Been wondering that myself. But I think I might know. Do you know what happened to Abigail Hall?”

  His brows furrowed. “The oldest Hall sister.” When I nodded, he scooted a bit closer. “All I know is that she had some mental issues.”

  I went through what Claudia and Betsy had told me. “I think that I was meant to be a reminder. They wanted me to suffer before I died, a reminder that no one crosses these people, even to this day. A message to the Hall sisters to keep their mouths shut.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “Maybe.” He slid a finger under my hospital bracelet, caressing my wrist. “When will you get out of here?”

  “We’re waiting on one more scan of my brain. If it’s positive and shows I still have one, maybe later today. Tomorrow for sure.”

  “What do you want to do next? Find Belle?”

  I shook my head. “No. Do you by any chance ever work with cadaver dogs?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Gadsden, Alabama, 1985

  ROSCOE SNAGGED HIS suit coat off the back of his desk chair and slipped it on. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  His coworker acknowledged the statement with a faint wave, but didn’t even look up. “Have a good lunch.”

  Roscoe chuckled as the front door of the shop closed behind him. He’d been working for the appliance sales and repair store in Gadsden for almost six months, and he barely knew the man who sat at the second desk in the showroom. The
store had more traffic than his own shop had on its best days, and having a colleague to help out with breaks, lunches, and inventory had been a relief. But the man kept to himself so much Roscoe didn’t even know his last name.

  All of it fuel for thought on making a decision about opening up his own place again. If he did, it would be here in Gadsden, not back in Pineville. He’d never go back into that again, even though the main source of the corruption was gone. Dead and buried, so to speak. But the Pattons and the Taylors still held sway over the town. Probably always would. It was like kudzu. You could cut all the tendrils, but if you didn’t get the deep roots, it just came back.

  With Old Man Abner missing and Chris dead, Ellis had slipped easily into control. At thirty-five, he was too young to be mayor, but whoever took the post would be his puppet. And his own sons were not far behind. The oldest, Thomas, had just turned sixteen, got his license, and had started making deliveries for almost every business in town. Roscoe knew the pattern. It was a job that would ingratiate him to almost every citizen in Pineville. Thomas would become the beloved son, groomed to take over for Ellis in the family business.

  Russell Taylor had made noises about retiring, and the scuttlebutt was that Andrew was about to close his clinic and go back to pharmacy school. Another dynasty at the heart of everything. Andrew and Maude had not had any children, so maybe he’d be the last Taylor medicine man controlling that part of the community. But for now it all meant Pineville was out of the question for Roscoe.

  Roscoe strode down the sidewalk, grateful for the late-August sunshine, a good summer breeze, and his new tan suit. He knew he looked good. His knee was almost back to normal, and helping his father on the farm had trimmed off a few pounds—which would be easy to put back on eating his mother’s cooking and sitting behind a desk. The suit cost a little more than he usually paid, but he could afford it.

  The insurance had paid off on the store, and the government had come through with a victim’s fund check for Roscoe as well as Maybelle. They’d even sent one to Imajean, which he’d immediately set aside for college. At first Maybelle had been reluctant to accept the money—she didn’t consider William or herself as “victims.” But Roscoe reminded her that the money would put Jeshua through college if he wanted to go.