Mississippi King

by Celia Aaron

  “He was a fool.” How could a father leave his child? Not to mention any man who hurt a woman wasn’t fit to lick Arabella’s boot. I’d had it so easy. Never worried about money. The only thing that made me lose sleep at night was letting my father down. And in the light of all his secrets and lies, I’d come to realize that he was the one who let me down.

  “I’m glad to be rid of Dale. If he showed up now, I probably wouldn’t even recognize him. It’s more likely he’s dead. Either from a bottle or a needle.” She slowed as we passed an “Entering Coffee County” sign peppered with buckshot. “It’s somewhere along here.”

  We passed a few more dirt roads, then slowed when we saw a paved one, the black asphalt soaking up the midday sun.

  “This has to be it.” She turned onto the winding lane that took us through a new-growth stand of pines, up and over a rise, and then down the other side where the trees thinned out and a pasture fence rose on either side of the lane.

  “He cleared all this land.” My gaze roamed over the rolling landscape, the grass growing high as cattle grazed off to the right near a man-made pond, the perfect circle reflecting the blue above.

  “All I can see is money.” She pointed to a barn with deep crimson siding and what looked like a brand-new metal roof gleaming in the sunlight. We kept going until the road curved up another slope, the steepest yet. On the other side, a valley lay sprawled below. A huge house sat in the center, the front like a French chateau, with a separate garage, a tennis court, and a large pool sparkling behind it.

  “Holy shit.” I leaned forward, gawking.

  She slowed to a stop. “And I thought the King place was a mansion.”

  I couldn’t tell if I wanted to defend my homestead or simply agree. The grandeur of this place was unmatched. How he’d managed to get all of this built without some sort of paper trail or even a whisper of gossip in Azalea was beyond me.

  We eased down the hill and came to a stop near the bottom where a sheriff’s cruiser sat parked.

  A deputy rolled down his window. “Howdy.”

  “Seen anyone?” Arabella asked.

  “Nope. Hasn’t been a peep.” He had to have been a deputy long before Porter arrived on the scene. His droopy eyes and gray beard gave him the appearance of a slightly sloshed Santa.

  “We’re going in.”

  “Got a warrant?”

  “Don’t need one. We’ve got enough dead bodies and probable cause that the judge is behind it.”

  He whistled, the whiskers around his mouth bristling. “The judge you say? Damn.”

  “It’s a mess.” She glanced at her rearview mirror. “Porter should be here in a minute. He’ll let you know what he needs. We’re going to go ahead and find a way in.”

  “Ten-four.” He tipped his hat as we drove by.

  Arabella rolled the rest of the way down the smooth lane. “Did he remind you of—”

  “Santa Claus.”

  She smiled. “Yep. I should have gotten his number so he could come to the house and play Santa for Vivi.”

  “When we were little, my dad always…” The gut punch from the memory was unexpected, knocking the wind out of me. Dad dressed as Santa, even when Porter and I were old enough to know it was him. He’d do it for Charlotte, and even my stoic teenage self got some joy out of seeing her eyes light up when “Santa” walked in.

  “We’re close.” She took my hand. “We’re going to find who did this.”

  “I know.” There wasn’t much I was sure of anymore, but Arabella had fast become my touchstone. Her word was golden.

  We’d find the killer. And more than that, I’d solve the mystery of who my father truly was.

  26

  Arabella

  The front door had two panels of wrought iron with sheets of glass behind each. There was no way to get in without welding equipment, so we skirted around the landscaping at the edge of the two-story home until we came to a side door. It was wrought iron as well, though not quite as ornate.

  “Let’s keep going.” I warily glanced at the wide pasture at our back. We were completely exposed and in broad daylight. The day had warmed a bit, but the chill lingered as we turned the corner to the back of the house, the pool glinting to our left.

  “There.” Benton pointed to a set of wood and glass doors that led into the house from the pool area.

  Placing my hands on the glass to shield from the sun, I peered inside. A well-appointed living area, the white furniture sleek and modern, lay beyond. “Don’t see anyone, but I’m pretty sure his furniture is worth more than my house.”

  Benton yanked on the door handles, but they were locked up tight. “Want to keep looking, or will this work for you?”

  I scanned the back of the house, but didn’t see any more obvious entrances. “Let’s do this one.”

  He handed me the shotgun. “They open outward, so kicking won’t work, but this looks like tempered glass.” He backed away and gripped the edges of a marble planter, fading pink blooms spilling over the sides. With an easy motion, he picked it up and walked it over to the door, though it had to weigh at least fifty pounds. He shot me one more look, his eyebrows up in question. I nodded.

  With a hard shove, he pushed the planter through one of the plate glass doors. It shattered into several smaller pieces, and the planter landed with a thud on the tile floor beyond.

  “Nice one.”

  I jumped as Porter walked around the side of the house and inspected the damage. “You need a bell.”

  “Not even a bell could save you from my ninja skills.” He put his hands up in what I supposed was a karate move.

  “Where’s your backup?”

  “The guys—” he shot me a look, “—and ladies. I hire ladies, too, you know.” He coughed into his palm. “They’ll be here soon. I left one on Letty Cline’s place and another is watching the courthouse. Santa’s going to stay put out front, let us know if we got company.”

  “What’s his actual name?” Benton kicked the remaining glass from the door frame.

  “Santa’s?” Porter tilted his head back, as if looking at the sky could give him the answer.

  “You don’t even know his name?” Benton retrieved his shotgun and stepped through the door.

  “He answers to Santa. What do you want from me?”

  Benton held out his hand for me.

  Porter smirked. “After you.”

  “Shut up.” I took Benton’s hand and stepped through the busted door.

  Despite the cavernous space—the living area was two stories with wide windows at the top—the air was stale, as if no one had been here in a while.

  “No alarm system at the Chateau de Ingles?” Porter asked, using a horrid French accent.

  “Suppose not.” I turned right into a spotless kitchen. “It’s like nothing here has been touched.” I opened the first drawer I came to. Empty. I walked down the row of custom cabinetry, each one as barren as the last.

  Porter opened the fridge. “Not even ketchup. What kind of psycho doesn’t have ketchup?”

  “He didn’t live here.” I peered into a wide pantry, the shelves bare. “He just built it, furnished it, and let it sit. That’s why no one in Azalea ever gossiped about it. He was never here.”

  Benton walked into the dining room, an ornate table and chairs matched with a sideboard and china cabinet dominated the room.

  “Fancy schmancy.” Porter opened the sideboard. “But no booze.”

  A thin film of dust coated the table.

  “Why build a house and never live in it?” Benton continued his examination, Porter and I following behind. We moved through a formal sitting room with a fireplace big enough for me to stand in, a library full of leather-bound volumes that looked brand new, two bedrooms that were sumptuously appointed, and two bathrooms that had never seen the flush of a toilet.

  “There’s nothing here.” I peered out the front door and caught a glimpse of Santa in his SUV.

  “Let’s try up
stairs.” Porter took the steps two at a time.

  “What do you make of this?” Benton leaned on the bannister and stared up at the crystal chandelier. “Why would the judge spend all this money for no reason?”

  “There was a reason.” I followed the silver inlay that ran through the marble foyer. “There’s a pattern here. We’re still too close to it to see the whole thing. But the judge didn’t make the money for this.” I waved my hand at the thick moldings and sleek décor.

  “He didn’t inherit it either. I’ve heard the story of how he came from nothing about two hundred times, starting from when I was barely old enough to walk. Judge Ingles would even tell it in the courtroom to put jurors at ease. He was an everyman, grew up poor here in Azalea and became one of the most respected members of the community.”

  “The money came from elsewhere. From outside Azalea.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I suspect the man with the light eyes is—”

  “God, I’d kill to take a bath in this master tub. It’s got all these jets. I could fit three women in there with me.” Porter reappeared on the landing.

  Benton scoffed. “Did you find anything of use?”

  “Nope.” He thumped down the stairs.

  “Let’s check the garage.” I headed back through the broken glass, past the pool, and to a simple white door at the back of the garage. Locked, of course.

  Porter walked over. “Allow me—”

  I reared back and kicked the door near the handle. It rocketed inward.

  “Damn, girl.” Porter whistled as Benton gave me an appreciative look.

  “What?” I shrugged, the picture of nonchalance despite being secretly pleased with myself.

  We walked into the gloomy garage, and I felt around until I came to a row of switches. I flicked each one of them on, and the room lit up in a sea of glints and reflections.

  “Is this heaven?” Porter strode in and peered at the first car he came to—an iridescent sports model.

  “The cars alone are worth a fortune.” Benton walked between the bumpers, the gray concrete floor polished to a bright sheen.

  “Can I impound these? That the right word?”

  “I think the word you mean is ‘steal.’” I looked past the glitz to see if there was anything of interest.

  “No, I mean the thing where we take custody of the items that are, you know, contraband, and keep them in our—”

  “She knew what you meant, Porter. Then she used sarcasm to shut you down. You’re just too slow to catch up to it.”

  “That’s just, like, your opinion, man.” Porter moved on to the next car, this one shiny black.

  Benton muttered under his breath.

  I peeked into the pristine car to my right. “This was a total bust.”

  “You have got to be kidding.” Porter shook his head. “This is the coolest shit in Mississippi. Maybe even in the south.”

  “But we’re no closer to finding what we’re looking for.” I walked past the chrome and glass until I came to an outer door on the other side of the garage. Flipping the deadbolt, I swung it inward.

  “Look.” Benton pointed to a low structure with a set of doors about twenty feet to the side of the garage. “What’s that?”

  The doors had been painted a deep green, which would have camouflaged them pretty well in the summer. But they stuck out in the browning grass, the metal almost technicolor in the sun.

  “Maybe it’s a storm shelter?” I hurried to it, the door shutting behind us as Porter continued his tour of each car in the garage.

  “Yeah, that’s probably it.”

  I stopped short and stared at the chain around the handles. “Who padlocks a storm shelter?”

  Benton knelt and pulled on the thick chain. “No way we’re getting into this without a key to the padlock or—”

  “Bolt cutters.” Porter appeared behind me, free from the garage’s spell. He clicked on the radio at his shoulder. “Santa, come in.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “I can’t believe he answers to Santa.” Benton rose and stared at the doors.

  “Drive on down here. You got some bolt cutters or a crowbar?”

  “Got both. Heading down there now.” An engine cranked in the distance.

  “We’re out back next to the garage. You can drive right up to it.”

  “Be there in a few seconds. Santa out.”

  I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo of the storm shelter doors.

  “What do you think he’s got down there?” Porter toed the edge of the rectangular entrance.

  Images from movies flashed through my mind. Women in chains. Torture implements. Organs in jars. I made myself shiver. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  Santa walked around the corner of the garage, bolt cutters and a crowbar in his hands as promised. “Boss.”

  “I think the bolt cutter should do it.” Porter took the handles and bent down.

  “You need to cut the link where the lock is.” Benton pointed.

  Porter moved the cutting mechanism to the appropriate link. “I knew that.”

  Benton pulled the chain taut.

  They made quick work of the chain, the links rattling against the metal doors as they pulled them free.

  “Santa, stay here and keep watch.”

  “You got it.” He patted the gun positioned at the edge of his portly stomach.

  “Let’s do it.” I pulled my pistol, aiming it at the doors as Benton and Porter pulled them open.

  The interior was pitch black, but fluorescent lights kicked on to reveal a rough set of wooden stairs leading down, the walls on either side compacted dirt.

  “I can go first.” Benton moved closer.

  “I got it.” Placing my foot on the first step, I eased down. The slope was harsh, almost like a ladder, and the earth above my head made me break out in a cold sweat. Tight spaces weren’t my favorite.

  A few more steps, and the floor evened out. Thick support beams lined the sides of a small room, no bigger than Vivi’s room at home. A bench sat against one wall, so perhaps the space had truly been designed as a storm shelter. However, a small desk sat to the side, a laptop and some banker’s boxes stacked on it.

  I stowed my pistol and snapped a photo.

  “That’s the file.” Benton slipped past me and examined the top box. “The one that was missing from the file room.”

  “What’s the other one?” I tapped the bottom box.

  “Not sure. It could be from the firm, but it isn’t labeled. The one from the firm has to do with—” he ran his finger along the words printed in a neat hand on the side of the box, “—looks like my subdivision.” He picked up that box and set it on the ground.

  I opened the bottom box. It was full of manila folders, none of them labeled. “What’s this?”

  Benton pulled out one of the thicker folders and paged through the documents inside. “Renovation costs.” His brow furrowed. “For the law firm.”

  “No offense, but the firm looked like it hadn’t been updated for quite some time.”

  “It hadn’t.” He pulled out one sheet of paper and read from it. “Replaced flooring in all offices, 5000 square feet of Brazilian mahogany, labor, extra materials.” He flipped to another page. “This one says they gutted the bathrooms and installed Italian marble. Has a receipt. My father paid in cash.”

  “I used the bathroom at the firm. That was definitely not Italian marble.”

  “None of this is true.” He flipped through a few more pages. “But Dad’s signature is on half of these documents. He signed for work that was never done, and he paid for it. I’ve never heard of any of these businesses.”

  The picture was finally becoming clear. “He was washing cash. Had to be. He and the judge both. This house? I’d be willing to bet that Judge Ingles paid for this construction with mostly cash. And he didn’t use locals, either. Whoever he paid was part of the scam.”

  He plucked another pie
ce of paper from the file. “This receipt is from a business in New Jersey.”

  “The man with the light eyes. He had a Jersey accent. The money is coming from there. Straight to Judge Ingles and your father. They were washing it for someone else—maybe drug money or something equally illegal—and taking a cut.”

  Benton dropped the folder back into the box as if it were a scorpion. “I want to say my dad would never do that.” His eyes hardened, but I knew heartbreak lived just beneath the surface. “But the truth is, I didn’t know my dad. Not like I thought I did.”

  “I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to do. I wrapped my arms around him. “I’m sorry you found out like this, and I’m sorry he hurt you.”

  “Me too.” He accepted my embrace and pulled me close.

  We stood in silence for a while, him in mourning and me in thought. Something had to have gone wrong for the New Jersey side of the equation to turn on Randall King and Judge Ingles. But what? The open safe seemed like a pretty big clue. Did someone get a little too handsy with the cash?

  “Thank you.” He squeezed me gently. “For everything.”

  I shook my head against his chest. “Seems like things have been pretty shitty in your life ever since I walked into it.”

  “I don’t think so. I think things were already shitty, but I just didn’t realize it. You showing up was the best thing that could’ve happened.”

  Something warm and tingly danced inside me.

  A sharp crack filtered down the stairs. Gunshot. My gut knew it before my head did.

  “Porter?” Benton called.

  I turned and ran to the stairs right as the door slammed shut, throwing everything into darkness.

  27

  Benton

  Another sharp crack shattered the air as I tried to climb the steps in the dark.