The Patsy's Patsy

by Brooke Shelby

  “Who cares why?” Bramble said indifferently. “What matters is that he backs down.”

  Maggie did just that. She called Master Ledbetter and requested a letter be written to caution Reverend Mason, should he continue his incessant accusations lacking concrete proof. For some reason, the mighty preacher always ceased his ridiculous vendettas as soon as the old lawyer came in contact with him. It fascinated Maggie that the minister’s arrogance could be knocked at all, least of all by a man of such age. Master Ledbetter made even Reverend Mason look a generation younger, which was a substantial age in Maggie’s opinion. Her lawyer was frail in body and hardly intimidating, so it entertained her to no end to sick him on the vindictive Reverend Mason.

  Two days later, the picketing stopped in a not-so-mysterious way. Maggie was relieved to see the lawn and sidewalk void of angry crowds, but the damage was done for the week’s revenue. Nevertheless, she realized that once more, the only defense would be offense. She would have to employ proactive investigation once again to find the true perpetrator, otherwise the blame would never take all the negative focus off her. Not only would she have to find the criminal at fault, but she would have to make sure that Sheriff Walden’s apprehension of said thug was as public and shocking as possible.

  16

  Determined to sleuth her way to justice again, Maggie utilized her penchant for deduction to help her ascertain the time frame of the drug spree. Once she figured out how recently the problem had started in Hope’s Crossing, she could narrow down the area of activity and log it against known drug dealers and their patterns.

  “Hey, David? Sorry to bother you about this,” she apologized when her friend answered the phone.

  “No worries, girl! You know I’m up for helping you any time,” he cordially replied. “What can I do you for?”

  “I am busy trying to narrow down the possible perpetrators in this plague of drug sales in my town, so I would appreciate the help. Could you possibly tell me when that Green Demon thing started dying down in Boston?” she inquired.

  Maggie was trying to find out when exactly the migration of the Green Demon blight came to Hope’s Crossing, after the epidemic dropped in Boston.

  “Sure thing. Hang on,” he said.

  After a brief pause, David told Maggie that deaths and overdoses in Boston’s medical reports had shown a significant drop just before summer break. Soon after the summer holidays, Hope’s Crossing’s drug problem began. This was just what Maggie needed to confirm her theory and she thanked David for the information.

  “Are you winning, my dear?” Bramble asked from over on the velvet sofa.

  “Hell yes,” she smiled. “Now that I know what time frame I have to check, I can enlist the help of some local friends to snoop at the church for me.”

  “At church?” he perked up with a glint in his eye.

  “Correct. It is no coincidence that Reverend Bastard is always behind these supposed crimes of mine,” she jested. “Guess who I am using as my bloodhound.”

  “Sharon Blake,” he replied instantly.

  “Wow, Bramble, you do know me well!” Maggie chuckled.

  “No, I know Sharon well. The woman is a walking bullhorn of gossip, after all. What better character to elicit help from when looking for dirt?” he grinned.

  And this was true. Maggie baked some questionable brownies and laced them with some herbs Sharon would appreciate. That evening, she walked over to her giddy neighbor’s home to deliver the gift and ask for the favor. Sharon was still an avid member of the church community, while fully supporting Maggie—a perfect combination for the mission.

  With a glass of white wine in hand, the plump blonde woman opened her door to Maggie.

  “Oh my God! What a surprise! To what I to do owe the pleasure?” Sharon raved happily, mixing up her words due to the pleasures of imbibing. “Come in! Come in, doll. Jeez, I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “I know. I’m sorry I have been so scarce,” Maggie shrugged apologetically.

  “Oh come now. I know why you have been unavailable. After the bullshit claims and the bullying, I’m not surprised you took a bit of a time out, doll.” Sharon smiled, her eyes constantly falling to the container in Maggie’s hands.

  “So you know about all that, hey?” Maggie sighed, but upon remembering who she was addressing, she added, “Of course you do.”

  “Yeah, man, that sucks,” Sharon genuinely sympathized.

  Maggie handed her the container. “I made you this. Hope you like it.”

  “For me?” Sharon shrieked, a silly reaction, since Maggie could obviously not have brought it for anyone else. Still, the pretty kitchen witch played along and watched her neighbor scarf down the first brownie. She declined to join Sharon in the feast, although she would not have minded a bit of a chocolate-induced sugar rush right then. Maggie was not there for merriment and she quickly jumped into business.

  “I am sure you don’t have to wonder why I brought over some fun stuff,” Maggie started.

  Through a mouthful of dark brown crumbs, Sharon mumbled, “Cauth ye need thum help with thumthing?”

  Maggie had to laugh. Geez, between her and Bramble I will have to start watching my thoughts!

  “I am that transparent, huh?” Maggie smiled.

  “Yeth,” Sharon affirmed and swallowed, “but I don’t mind. I love you to bits, doll.”

  “I guess you also know what I need?” Maggie cocked her head, looking a bit self-conscious. It was adorable how the feisty redhead at the town hall meeting was now groveling like a cautious teenager asking permission to go out.

  “No, babe, I’m not that good,” Sharon winked. “Wine? Coffee?”

  “Coffee, as strong as you have, please,” Maggie smiled.

  “Okay, come in the kitchen and tell me what we are doing,” Sharon said eagerly, ushering Maggie into her cozy, albeit kitschy little kitchen.

  Once the two ladies settled into their chairs at the table, drinks in hand, Maggie explained what she would need from Sharon.

  “I was hoping you could snoop around the people at church, you know, find out who is new in town,” Maggie elucidated. “You see, I need to find out who has come over from Boston to Hope’s Crossing in the last three months.”

  “Last three months,” Sharon repeated as she wolfed down another brownie. “Okay. What else?”

  Maggie was delighted at her friend’s enthusiasm. And since Sharon had cut down on her previous alcoholic binging, she was quite the sharp tack. It was a welcome change to what Maggie was used to. There were enough locals who lacked basic logic, cradling low IQs that fed the malice of Reverend Mason.

  “Well, that is pretty much it, Sharon,” she shrugged. “Just need to know who came over from there.”

  “Ah! I get it. Three months ago is when this bloody scourge of drugs started, yes? You are trying to identify the new guy doing this,” she declared proudly, “because it is the right time frame for the troubles.”

  “Wow!” Maggie exclaimed. “Looks like all this sugar is waking up your paranoia to match mine.”

  They laughed, joking about how crazy they were, and had several servings of drink before Maggie had to go home.

  Having been lugged into Reverend Mason’s crusade and insulted in public, Sheriff Carl Walden elected to make short work of proving the deceitful clergyman wrong. The audacity of Reverend Mason was astounding to Carl, who played with the idea of never stepping into the church again after the mad insinuation aimed at him at the meeting.

  It was late and windy outside, the howling warm gale perfectly complementing the sheriff’s demeanor. A storm raged inside him. He felt betrayed and belittled. To even assume that his aptitude was marred by romantic notions was a slap in his face and it made him furious to think that he could not react how he wished. His badge was his life and he dared not compromise his position and relinquish the honor to another. Besides, if he had to lose his authority, the town would lose its only coherent and benevolent autho
rity figure. He could not allow the good people of Hope’s Crossing to be at the mercy of more people like Mason.

  In a desperate move to get help with his investigation, Carl called the Boston Drug Unit to establish some kind of collaboration between precincts. Unfortunately for him, Boston was also suffering shortages in its workforce that significantly delayed any feedback. Carl realized that they were as overworked as his people were, but he logged the request with the head of the unit anyway.

  After sending an email, and after speaking to two different drug enforcement agents, Carl called it a day. The big, bear-like officer marched out of the station doors and met the intense wind outside, but it hardly influenced him. Carl breathed in the air and looked at the sky, but the clouds had obscured the moon and killed the stars. He felt a sudden melancholy gripping him, the moaning of the wind reminding him of the hopeless and helpless nature of his mood.

  His massive footsteps hardly sounded over the coming storm and on the warm air he could smell the sweet scent of jasmine and the distant appeal of pizza coming from Harry’s Pizzeria. Normally the sheriff would jump at the chance to celebrate the end of his shift with a good pizza and a beer, but since the town hall meeting, Carl was even more out of sorts. His mind refused to lock out the brute attack on his professionalism and his self-control and he could think of little else since it happened.

  He was grateful that Nellie was only coming home tomorrow, giving him one last night to let his emotions rule him and blow off steam. Carl got in his car and took a moment.

  “You have earned some time for yourself, bud,” he told himself. “Enjoy the little things.”

  Effectively shoving the insults and struggles from work to the back of his mind, Carl drove to Maggie’s house and knocked on her door. When she opened the door, he simply shrugged and sighed, “Got any beer?”

  17

  Having had a good session of drinking and exchanging ideas between them, Maggie joined Sheriff Walden the next day. The night before, they had discussed their respective findings and theories and come to the conclusion that, if they wished to find the true culprit, they would have to question Billy Mason. After all, it was time to get to the root of the problem and that meant speaking to one of the users outside the legal parameters of official interrogation.

  “He is the perfect person to ask,” Maggie told Carl as they crossed the beautiful green lawn of Hope’s Crossing Medical Center. “Billy has hopefully learned his lesson after almost getting killed. Maybe that rattled his cage enough to make him talk.”

  Carl had a mischievous look on his face as they crossed the narrow tar path to the front door of the institution. “Not just that, Maggie. The little miscreant can’t run away when he gets nervous.”

  Maggie chuckled at his less-than-tactful idea, but nobody understood him better than her. Of all people, Maggie understood the frustration of being accused of something because of the misconduct of others. It was only human of Carl to finally enjoy questioning one of the local addicts without the legal constraints that usually constrained his chosen method—intimidation and threat.

  It had been over a decade since Carl Walden used such methods. The birth of his daughter ten years before had turned him around. He had become more tolerant and considerate, undoubtedly a healthy turn of mentality for someone in his position. However, his new leniency and gentler approach eventually proved to be counterproductive. Somehow, it had made him soft. Besides the fact that his cordial disposition towards perpetrators caused him to be verbally abused, insulted by lawyers, and disrespected by smug officers, it had also gradually turned him into a compliant lackey for the mayor and his affiliates.

  Sheriff Walden had had enough of being nice. Coincidentally, Maggie Corey felt the same. Both had reached the end of their tether in being falsely accused and made out to be fools. Billy Mason, the poor sod, was their one and only target now. It was just before the end of afternoon visiting hours when the sheriff and his friend entered Billy’s room.

  “Great,” was all Billy mumbled when the big sheriff appeared in his private room door.

  “Wait till you see what else I brought with me,” Carl grinned, looking nasty.

  The gorgeous woman from the herb shop followed him in. Billy always found her fascinating. Her small, powerful body was casually dressed in tights and sneakers with a brightly colored hoodie that hung loosely over a thin tank top. Her striking blue eyes pinned him down and he marveled at her wild red hair.

  “Miss Corey,” he remarked without specific emotion.

  “Hey Billy,” she smiled in a gentle voice, and sat down on one of the chairs. “Sorry that I didn’t bring you anything, but I have to make sure I don’t get blamed for smuggling drugs in to you.” She paused and her smile faded as she leered at him. “Since, ya know, that is what I do these days.”

  Billy was knackered. Miss Corey’s snide comment attested to the fact that his two visitors were not there to feel sorry for him. Pity, because he was feeling like a squashed beetle. His ribs were broken, his shoulder dislocated, and his right shin was crushed. Where he had hit the tar highway, the left side of his face was skinned away, left with only gauze to cover the bare flesh, and he was recovering from a concussion.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Corey,” he said quickly, gasping as he struggled to breathe.

  “For what?” she asked, looking unapologetic.

  “You know,” he shrugged, his eyes following the big frame of the sheriff approaching his bed, “for everything.”

  Sheriff Walden grabbed an aluminum chair and made sure that it scraped along the floor as he positioned it. These were devices he used to use on stubborn of arrogant criminals. Subliminally, the sound was supposed to invoke apprehension in the subject, establishing that the sheriff was as cold as the frame of the chair and equally abrasive. It worked. The boy looked deeply unsettled by the looming shadow of the angry-looking sheriff that settled a few inches from him.

  “So, Billy, how are you feeling?” Carl’s powerful voice asked, somewhat subdued into deceptive placidity.

  “Sore,” the boy replied. “Very sore and kind of sleepy.”

  Sheriff Walden knew that Billy was trying to elicit pity from him, perhaps even thinking that he could use fatigue as a reason to refuse questioning.

  “That’s okay,” the sheriff shrugged. “I know just the thing to keep you awake and it is not khat.” He lifted his massive hand in no particular fashion, but Billy read the message loud and clear.

  A few years before, Billy had seen Sheriff Carl Walden lift his hand like that to warn an abusive husband who refused to release his battered wife for arrest. The man had challenged the sheriff and ended up lying on the grass with a broken nose and bleeding ears less than three punches later. Carl Walden’s size was no accident. It was not for aesthetic reasons. He could whip anyone if he wanted to and what made him scary was that he did not discriminate. Whether you were ten years old or eighty years old, male or female—to Carl Walden a perp was a perp. In his opinion, once people crossed the line to commit a crime, they relinquished their identity and became nothing but a problem for society and he treated them all equally. Painfully equally.

  “I’m awake, sir,” Billy gulped.

  “That’s a good start,” Carl sneered in a low tone that even had Maggie’s skin crawling. “Now, I will not waste your time, so I trust you will not waste mine.”

  Billy Mason was terrified, mostly by the threatening presence of the lawman, but also about being in trouble with the police. He knew that everyone knew he was in the hospital, therefore he was the prime suspect amongst the other addicts and dealers as a snitch. The young man had problems from both sides of the fence.

  Carl asked politely, “I need the name of your dealer. Who supplies you kids with Green Demon?”

  Billy’s eyes were wild, but his ribs refused his lungs the necessary air for panic. He looked to Maggie, but found the same indifference in her.

  “I-I can’t, Sheriff,” he stuttered. �
�Please don’t make me.”

  “You can’t … or you won’t,” Carl asked.

  “No, no, you see, I want to help. I really do. I know Miss Corey is not the bad guy here,” the boy rambled. “Look, I know … we … we all know that the accusations against Miss Corey are a lie.”

  “Then tell us who is supposed to be accused, Billy,” Maggie urged. “I am so very tired, Billy. So tired. If you know I am not responsible, just tell us who is, so that I can also stop being threatened and punished for this. You know this isn’t right, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Then tell us how to stop all this,” she reiterated gently. Maggie noticed that Billy was not antagonistic towards her, so she tried to play on his guilt and his feelings to find his compassion.

  Carl Walden’s cold dark eyes scrutinized him as he spoke to Maggie and it frightened Billy nearly to death. He tried not to look at the sheriff, but it was hard to avoid him.

  “Look, I am scared, okay?” Billy admitted. His fearful eyes caught sight of the old nurse that had been on duty every day at his ward. She was loitering about outside his room. “I can’t tell you who the supplier is. The guy made me an addict, but I promise you, he is capable of so much worse if I tell you who he is.”

  “You think he doesn’t already think you ratted on him?” Carl smirked. “My friend, that guy is already putting hits out on you as we speak. Whether you tell us or not, he already assumes you did. You may as well; otherwise you’ll get killed for nothing.”

  Billy started weeping bitterly. He was petrified at the prospect, but he had no guarantees that Sheriff Walden was bluffing. It made perfect sense that the supplier would think he was telling the police everything. Feeling immense sympathy for the scared young man, Maggie got up and offered him a hanky she had tucked in her hoodie pocket. With a gesture of her head, she told Carl to back down slightly and he obliged.