by D P Lyle
“What about Jason? Any issues there?”
“I don’t know Jason. Never met him. Charlie, of course, knew Emily was seeing him, too. Wasn’t happy about it, but Charlie’s the kind that stays the course. I think he felt that all he needed to do was hang steady and that, eventually, Jason would move on and he and Emily just might have a future.”
“No real animosity against Jason as far as you know?” I asked.
“That ain’t Charlie,” he said. He gave a weak smile. “Ain’t in his makeup. Sometimes I wish he would get angry—at something, anything—but he never does. He just smiles and carries on. Someone might slight him, and he basically ignores it. Been that way his whole life. Even when we were kids.”
“Do you have any idea who might have done this?” Nicole asked.
“None. Except I suspect that you should start with the husband. Sean. You talked to him yet?”
“We have,” I said.
“We watch those cop shows all the time. Seems like it’s always the spouse.”
“That’s true,” I said. “But he’s got a pretty good alibi.”
“I heard. Out on an oil rig, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
CHAPTER 22
NICOLE WHEELED INTO the gravel parking area at Watkins’ Lumber. It buzzed with activity. Two flatbed trucks were backed into a loading area where three men lifted two-by-fours and Sheetrock panels onto the bed of each. Another man stood nearby with a clipboard, apparently checking off the materials loaded on each truck.
Reminded me of the summer Pancake and I had worked at such a place. Hot days of lifting, stacking, carrying, and loading wood and other materials only to drive them somewhere and lift, and carry, and unload them for a customer. Mostly DIY types, but some true construction sites.
I watched as one of the men balanced a Sheetrock panel and carefully lowered it onto a stack of others. Of all the things we had done that summer, by far the most grueling was handling Sheetrock. Heavy, awkward to handle, and easily fractured, which would render it useless.
Backbreaking. For me, anyway. Pancake, less so. He handled even three-quarter-inch panels with ease.
The man with the clipboard turned out to be Fred Watkins. He wore a red shirt with “Watkins’ Lumber” stitched over the breast pocket, tan khakis, and work boots, brown with red laces. He peered at us over the half glasses. I introduced Nicole and me, adding that we were with Longly Investigations. Man, I hated saying that. Made me feel like I sold out. That Ray had won our years-long battle. Nicole had no such reservations. She shook Watkins’ hand firmly, flashed that wonderful smile of hers.
“Investigators, huh?” Watkins said. A frown creased his brow. “Investigating what?”
“The murders of Emily Patterson and Jason Collins,” I said.
He hesitated, his frown deepening. “And you think I can tell you what?”
Watkins was lean and wiry. Fit. And right now, his shoulders were erect, his back straight, and his expression hard-edged.
“Just so you know,” Nicole said, “Chief Warren is onboard with our enquiries.”
He gave a half nod, seemed to relax a notch.
Nicole continued. “We’re helping her gather information. Trying to look into Emily’s world. See if anything shakes loose.”
“So, you’re interested in Sean?” Watkins asked.
“Exactly.”
“Why?” His back stiffened again. “He a suspect?”
“Not really,” I said. “He wasn’t even around at the time of the murders.”
“True.” Watkins nodded. He glanced back over one shoulder. “Let’s go to my office. It’s cooler there.”
It was. Watkins had the AC cranked up. Coming in from the heat, it felt like a meat locker. He sat behind his desk, we in the chairs across from him.
“Have you talked with Sean?” Watkins asked.
“We did,” I said. “He seemed pretty shaken by all this.”
“That’s true. So much so that the rig operator where he works didn’t want him to come back for a while. I guess he figured Sean would be too distracted. Maybe be a hazard. That sort of thing.” He shrugged. “But things changed. Apparently, he had a couple of guys go out sick, so he called in Sean.”
“He’s out there in the Gulf now?” Nicole asked.
Watkins nodded. “Just for a couple of days. I think he’ll be back tomorrow. Maybe the next day.”
Sean hadn’t mentioned that when we talked to him the other day. Maybe he didn’t yet know he was going to be called in.
“Tell us about Sean,” Nicole said.
Watkins scratched one side of his nose. “I didn’t think he was a suspect.”
“But his soon-to-be ex-wife was one of the victims,” I said. “Maybe he was the target.”
“You mean like someone went over there to kill him and Emily was collateral damage as they say?”
“Maybe.”
“But they didn’t live together anymore.”
“Maybe the killer didn’t know that,” Nicole said.
He sighed. “I can’t imagine anyone having that kind of issue with Sean. He’s a good guy. Hard worker. When he’s here.”
“So you’re okay with him only being here part-time?” I asked.
“Sure. He’s worked here since he was in high school. Of course, I wish he was here every day, but he loves that rig work and so we make an accommodation.” He tapped a finger on his desk. “I don’t know why he likes it. It takes a toll.”
“He had no issues with anyone as far as you know?” Nicole asked.
“Sure didn’t. Even his divorce was going smoothly. From what he told me. I think he and Emily had reconciled everything and were comfortable with ending it.”
“That’s what we hear,” I said. “He told us you got robbed not too long ago.”
“Sure did. Sean and Becky Woodley were here. Becky keeps our books.”
“What happened?” Nicole asked.
“It was a Saturday. We had just closed. Fact is, I had left an hour earlier. Me and the wife had to go to her cousin’s place for some get-together. Over in Mobile.” He offered a half smile. “Anyway, they were getting ready to close up. Two guys came in with masks and guns. Forced Becky to open the safe. She—Sean, too, for that matter—tried to convince them they didn’t know the combination. Truth was, only Becky did. They must’ve sensed that. Put a gun to her head is what she said. She opened the safe. Then they tied them up with duct tape. Took the cash out of the safe.”
“How much?” I asked.
“A shade over eighteen grand.”
“You keep that kind of money around often?”
He nodded. “Most of the time. A lot of our customers pay cash.” He bit one lip. “That’s why we have the safe.” He nodded over his shoulder.
A large black safe sat in the corner. It looked substantial. Hard to crack. Unless you had the combination. Or someone at the business end of your gun did.
“Who would know you kept cash on hand?” I asked.
“Besides me?” Another half smile. “Becky, of course. A couple of other folks.”
“Sean?”
He nodded. “Yeah. He helped with inventory. And often took the cash over to the bank.”
“Is eighteen K typical for you?” I asked.
“Mostly. Sometimes more, sometimes less, but I suspect that’s in the average ballpark.”
“You have any idea who the two robbers might’ve been?”
He shook his head. “Sean and Becky said they wore ski-type masks. They only saw their eyes and mouth. Far as I know, Chief Warren doesn’t have any leads either. Last I heard anyway.”
“She doesn’t,” I said.
He shrugged. “Probably never know.” He gave a quick headshake. “I got insurance that’ll cover the loss, but the invasion, the shear audacity of it all, there’s no rectifying that.”
Isn’t that the truth? Many years ago, Captain Rocky’s was robbed. More like burglarized. Someone wa
lked away with a pair of tables and half a dozen chairs from my deck. Never found out who, never saw the furniture again. I figured it had to have been several people and they were now enjoying them on a patio somewhere.
It wasn’t eighteen thousand, maybe eight hundred, but the sense of violation was real and it lingered.
CHAPTER 23
THE HOUSE SAT on a rural stretch of County Highway 27, State Highway 181, a shade over three miles from downtown Fairhope. Rich farmland, stands of pines, cedars, and gum trees. Houses scattered here and there across the terrain. Quiet, not much traffic. Made snooping around a problem. Pancake knew his truck would ping everyone’s radar.
He imagined that since Clive and Reba Mack were the major local dealers, and that fact didn’t seem to be a secret to anyone in the county, their neighbors were used to having strangers in their midst. He was also sure that everyone who visited the Macks was considered a drug buyer. A stain on their God-fearing community. Someone to keep an eye on.
Meant that folks paid attention to who came and went. Not just to the Macks’ door but up and down the rural roads. Especially strangers in strange vehicles. You just never knew when remembering something like that might be important.
Warren had given him the address, scribbling it on a scrap of paper. Pancake then swung down by the Grand Hotel and picked up Ray, who was still unpacking. He had bounced over to Biloxi, finished his business, and headed back to the Grand Hotel. After Pancake said they had a mission, Ray grabbed his surveillance bag, and they were off.
Pancake rolled past the house. It was late afternoon, the sun low. The two large oaks in the front yard laid long shadows over the roof. Three vehicles in the drive: a metallic gold Lexus SUV, a white BMW X5, and a red Ford F150 truck, camper shell on the back. Ray aimed his camera, long telephoto lens, through the lowered passenger window. Click, click, click.
“See anybody?” Pancake asked.
“Looks quiet.”
Pancake continued a quarter of a mile and tuned off the highway onto a dirt road.
“You think all those vehicles are theirs, or do they have visitors?” Pancake asked.
Ray shrugged.
Pancake found a flat shoulder and made a U-turn, coming to a stop. “What now?”
“Let’s do another drive-by. I think I saw another road just beyond the house. Like this one except it looked like it went into a stand of trees. Maybe we can get in there and get a closer look.”
That’s what they did. Driving by, the house appeared unchanged; the spur road did indeed melt into the trees. Pancake jerked to a stop and they climbed out. They pushed through the pines and squatted near the edge, the house fifty yards away.
Pancake examined it through a pair of binoculars. “I got something,” he said. “That left-most window. Looks like the living room.”
Ray leveled his long-lensed camera toward the house. Click, click. He saw two people beyond the window. A man and a woman. Now a third. Another man. The woman facing the pair—hand gestures indicated she was talking. Then they moved from view.
“They’re coming out,” Ray said.
Pancake watched the three step onto the porch, followed by another man. Ray snapped dozens of pictures, then switched to movie mode, capturing the unfolding scene. Pancake adjusted the focus of his field glasses. The quartet chatted for a minute, and then two of the men descended from the porch and walked to the red pickup. One tall, thin, the other shorter, thicker. The tall dude wore jeans, a black tee shirt, his hair long, stringy, a blue backpack slung over one shoulder. The shorter one’s hair was longer, shoulder length, and also stringy. Jeans and a black tee. The uniform of the day apparently. They climbed in, spun a turn through the yard, and then headed south on the highway. The couple stood and watched, then went back inside.
“What do you think?” Pancake asked.
“Probably a couple of their dealers. Picking up more product and laying off some cash.”
“Yep,” Pancake said. “What now?”
“Let’s get back on the road. I’ll call Jake and see what they’re up to. Then let’s go have some dinner and compare notes.”
“Dinner sounds good to me.”
“Of course it does.”
CHAPTER 24
THE RIB SHACK seemed to be a hot spot. It was just past five and the after-work crowd had descended. Music pumped from overhead speakers; chatter and laughter hung in air thick with the aroma of barbecue. My stomach grumbled. I think we had missed lunch. Last thing I remembered was breakfast. Oh, and that cinnamon roll at Mullins Bakery. And that Blue Belle ice cream Nicole and I had grabbed a few hours ago. Still, it felt like I hadn’t eaten all day.
“Smells good,” Nicole said.
“True. Seems it would have attracted Pancake by now.”
“The night is young.”
“And his food radar net is extensive.”
We grabbed a pair of stools at the bar. Two young ladies sat to my left. They turned, smiled. I returned their smiles.
One of them mumbled, “Sorry,” as she moved her purse down the bar and out of my face.
“No problem.”
Nicole leaned over and said, “Looks like you have new admirers.”
“That’s because I’m so charming.”
“Dream on, little broomstick cowboy.” She nudged me with an elbow. “You’re not that charming, but you are hot.”
“As are you.” I gave a slight nod toward the end of the bar. “And I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
The bartender was mixing some concoction, but his attention was definitely on Nicole. She gave him a quick glance.
“He’s cute,” she said.
“In a puppy dog kind of way.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Of course.”
She shook her head. “No, you’re not. You don’t do jealousy.”
“I’m not the only one.”
“You mean Pancake?”
“Yeah. That’s who I was thinking.”
It was true. My attitude had always been that people should be where they want to be, and if they want to be somewhere else, then that’s best for all concerned. I had my heart broken in junior high when my first love left me for anther guy. I hung on to that jealousy for months. It was a painful time. Sort of broke me from that need. With Pancake, it had been earlier. With Emily. After she left town, he moped for a few months. But once he surfaced from that, I never saw him in those dark waters again.
Nicole was the same. She didn’t hold tightly, didn’t demand much. Seemed content with letting things be what they were. Of course, with a mere nod of her head, or one of those wondrous smiles, she could have any man she wanted. Like Mike the bartender.
That turned out to be his name. He appeared, big grin, gaze devouring Nicole.
“What can I get you folks?” he asked.
He never looked at me so I figured Nicole was the folks he had in mind.
“I’ll have a Makers Mark,” Nicole said. “Neat.”
Mike the bartender recoiled slightly. “A bourbon lady?” He smiled. “I like that.”
He started to turn but then seemed to remember me.
“The same,” I said.
My phone buzzed. Ray. When I answered, he was on speaker. I could hear the rumble of Pancake’s truck engine in the background.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“We’re headed back to the hotel. We can hook up there, grab a bite, and compare notes.”
“We have a better plan,” I said. “We’re at The Rib Shack.”
“Ribs?” It was Pancake. “I’m all over that.”
“Sounds like we’re headed your way,” Ray said.
“It’s on Fairhope Avenue. Just north of downtown.”
“Later.” Ray was gone.
Mike the bartender returned. “Get you guys anything else?” Again, to Nicole.
“We’re looking for Whitney Meyer,” Nicole said. “Is she here today?”
“She is.” He scann
ed the restaurant. “Over there.”
I turned and looked the way he indicated. She stood next to a table about twenty feet away, scribbling an order on a pad. Attractive. Fit. Short, sculpted black hair, one side shaved. Jeans, green tank top, a small rose tattoo on her right shoulder.
“I’ll let her know,” he said.
A couple of minutes later, she walked up. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes,” I said and introduced Nicole and me. “Just need to ask a few questions.”
She hesitated. “About what?”
“Maybe a table,” Nicole said. “We have two more joining us.”
She pointed to a four-top in the corner. A busboy was wiping it with a cloth. “That’s one of mine.”
I laid three tens on the bar, nodded to Mike, and we headed that way. The busboy placed four water glasses and napkin-wrapped utensil sets on the table. Whitney appeared.
“Get you anything?” she asked.
“We’re good right now.” We had brought our drinks with us. “We want to ask about Sean Patterson.”
Her brow creased. “What’s this about?”
“Nothing sinister,” I said. I offered her my most charming smile. See, I am charming? I explained to her who we were and why we were asking. Looking into Emily’s life.
She nodded, said she had a break coming and would get someone to cover her tables for a few minutes. She left, chatted with one of the other waitresses, and returned, taking a seat opposite me.
“We understand you’ve been dating Sean,” I said.
“That’s right. For a few months.”
“How’s he doing?” Nicole asked. “With all this?”
“Mostly okay. He does have his down moments.”
“Which is what you’re there for,” Nicole said. A soft smile. “We talked to him a few days ago. Seems like a nice guy.”
“He is. He’s been good to me, for sure.”
“Did you know Emily?” I asked.
“Sure. She worked over at the bakery. Came in here frequently.”
“What did you think of her?”
“Very nice. Always a pleasant smile. Very smart. We talked about books a lot. We both like to read.”
