The J D Bragg Mystery Series Box Set

by Ron Fisher

  “I would expect you to do just that, little brother. I know you well. Now let’s go talk to the staff.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The staff meeting went well, under the circumstances. We were small in number, but gathered around Mrs. Mozingo’s desk in the lobby we still spilled into the hallway.

  I read in their faces a mixture of concern for Kelly and varying degrees of anxiety about their jobs. I hoped I could assuage those concerns as they got to know me better and saw that I was there to help, not shake things up. I told them that they were all doing great jobs and to continue doing what they were doing, and that Kelly would be back before they knew it. Whether they all bought that would become evident as time went by.

  Afterward, when everyone had gone back to their offices and stations, I asked Mrs. Mozingo, “Who’s in charge of business cards? I want to order some for me. I don’t want to go around having to explain to people why a sportswriter from Atlanta is interested in their business and is asking them questions.”

  ‘You’re in luck, honey. When Kelly and Eloise took over, we went ahead and ordered your business cards for you too.”

  She went to a file cabinet and came back with a small box. Inside were Clarion business cards that read ‘John David Bragg, Publisher,’ and had both the Clarion’s and my cell number on them.

  “There’s more where those came from,” she said.

  I was official, I thought, and went back into my new office, closed the door, and sat down at my new desk. All kinds of old memories washed over me. Not so much of Kelly, I’d spent little time there with her. My memories were of times when it was Grandfather’s desk. I could almost smell the cherry tobacco he smoked in his pipe and feel the sense of being in forbidden territory every time I came there as a kid. Of course, the office had changed since Kelly took over—there were signs of her everywhere now, and the desktop was neat and uncluttered, which it never was when Grandfather sat there. The only thing of Grandfather’s that remained, other than the desk itself, was his Pulitzer, the commemoration still hanging on the wall.

  As I sat down, an idea suddenly popped into my head from what Bagwell was saying about the photos of Hound-dog not looking like him. I remembered what I thought the first time I’d seen him at the Tiger’s Tail. I thought that he strongly resembled the actor, Jason Momoa. I was no celebrity buff, but even I knew who Jason Momoa was. He was hugely popular, having been in the TV series, the Game of Thrones, among other popular TV shows and movies.

  I got up and went out to see Mrs. Mozingo.

  “Who around here would have the software program Photoshop on their computer, and know how to use it?” I asked her.

  “Photoshop? The computer artwork software program?” she asked.

  I was surprised she knew what it was. But then, there were few things Mrs. Mozingo didn’t know. “Yes. I need someone to retouch a photograph for me.” If I couldn’t find a good picture of Hound-dog, I’d have one made.

  “If it were anybody, it would be Jason Pilgrim,” she said.

  “Would you get him for me, please?” I said and returned to my office.

  Jason Pilgrim was the Clarion’s IT manager. He was the mastermind behind the digital online version of the Clarion, and he’d also been working for a year or so converting all the old microfilm records in the morgue into digital files, bringing the paper up to modern times. I’d met him, but I didn’t know him all that well. I imagined that converting everything into microfilm was an enormous job. Past copies of the Clarion were stored in gray steel cabinets and went back almost a hundred years—since the paper’s inception and long before my grandfather bought it.

  Jason was a young man, not much older than Vickie Sayers, but of a different type. He looked like he should be playing in a rock band. He had a ring in his eyebrow, one in an ear, his nose, and his lower lip, and a high fade haircut to go with it. Other than that, he wasn’t a bad-looking kid.

  Kelly had told me about his history. He’d finished top of his class at an upstate Tech College in Computer Sciences and was a whiz kid with computers. But an earlier arrest for hacking some government website left him with a police record that kept him from finding a job after graduation. Kelly met him and took a chance. She thought him a good kid and a genius. For that, he was fiercely loyal to her. I got the feeling that he didn’t expect me to regard him as highly as Kelly did. Maybe I didn’t, but he was doing an excellent job. Our digital issue was as good or better than many big-city papers, and I agreed with Kelly. We were lucky to have him.

  “How are you, Jason?” I asked when he came in and took a seat.

  He just shrugged and said, “Kelly.”

  Jason seemed to be a man of few words, or maybe it was just around me. He was bummed out over what happened to Kelly. Weren’t we all?

  “Am I to keep digitizing the morgue?” he asked.

  “Of course. Business as usual. And I understand you’re doing a great job.”

  “Just wondering, new boss and all.” He looked like he was about to say more.

  “There’s something I’d like you to do for me.” I swung my laptop around and showed him the photograph of Jason Momoa that I had downloaded. “See this guy?”

  “Yeah, same first name as me. That’s the guy played Khal Drogo, Daenerys Targaryen’s husband on Game of Thrones. He was a bad dude.”

  “Can you take this photograph and retouch it for me?”

  “Maybe, I’m no expert, but there are some things I can handle. What do you want done?”

  “Trim his beard. Make it shorter and neater. Like a barber did it. Take some arc out of the eyebrows, and remove that scar that runs through one of them.”

  Jason said, “No problemo, when do you want it?”

  “Ten minutes ago, One print, eight by ten.”

  “You got it, just email me the photo file.”

  “You don’t want to know why?” I asked him.

  “Tell me later, I got a rush job to do.”

  I liked this guy.

  He slid out of his chair and left while I was emailing him the photo.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  After Jason Pilgrim went back to his work station to do the photo retouching for me, I turned to my laptop and opened a Word document to begin writing about Kelly’s assault.

  I sat for a moment staring at the blank page but couldn’t seem to focus on it. Other things were interfering with my thinking. I decided to take care of at least one of those things before I tackled Kelly’s story. The Clarion didn’t go to press until Wednesday night, so I still had some time.

  A woman answered on the second ring. I told her who I was, used my Clarion title, and asked if she was Kate, Chaney, the mother of April Cheney and May Cheney Burgess. She said she was, proving my assumption right. April and May were sisters.

  After offering her my sympathies for the loss of May, I said, “Mrs. Cheney, we’re doing a follow-up story to the one we published on your daughter May’s unfortunate death, and I'm trying to get in touch with April, but we’re having a hard time reaching her by telephone. Is there some other way to contact her?”

  She didn’t speak for a moment, which I took to mean that she was hesitant to give me that information.

  “I promise you, Mrs. Cheney. We won’t put your daughter’s address or any private or personal information about her in the paper.”

  “Well . . .” she said finally. “You can probably find her behind the bar at that beer joint in Clemson where she works.” The distaste was clear in her voice. “But don’t put that in your paper. She might not care, but I do. I ain’t proud of it.”

  “And the name of that beer joint?

  “The Tiger’s Tail.”

  That, I hadn’t guessed. To say I was surprised was an understatement. The bartender who had something to hide was April Cheney.

  “I don’t like her working in a place like that,” Mrs. Cheney was saying. “But she don’t listen to me. April is my wild child. May was the good one, but loo
k what happened to her. First, her husband Bobby got killed in that car wreck that tore up May’s back, and now May is dead from the pain pills she got hooked on. That wreck killed them both, I guess you could say. April is the one I thought would end up on drugs. Every rough piece of white trash in this part of the county hangs out at the Tiger’s Tail. It ain’t no place for respectable people.”

  I thanked her and ended the call. I’d found not only April Cheney, but discovered that I’d met her. And she’d denied knowing Kelly, which was a lie. Going back to the Tiger’s Tail for another visit was definitely on my agenda.

  #

  It took Jason Pilgrim about forty-five minutes to retouch the photograph. It was perfect. It wasn’t quite Hound-Dog, but it was a lot closer to him than his mug shot.

  I placed the photo in a manila envelope and told Mrs. Mozingo I was leaving for the day. I asked her to pass that along to Eloise, and to tell her not to wait up for me. I’d be quite late.

  From there, I fueled up the Jeep and headed to Cashiers. The little mountain town with million-dollar homes and million-dollar views was only about forty miles away but would take an hour to drive because of the snake-back roads once I hit the mountains.

  I planned to do what Bagwell’s deputy couldn’t. Find someone who could positively say that the man in my photo was there with the other bikers—or he wasn’t. I had to believe that Hound-dog’s striking good looks would have got him noticed—or that his absence was just as noteworthy.

  Regardless of what I found, it wouldn’t be anything the authorities could use. But hopefully, it would be enough to satisfy me that we had the right guy, or we didn’t. If Larry Dean Atkins had attacked and almost beat Kelly to death, then I would find a way to bring justice to him. And I had a lot of ideas on how to do that, none of them for delicate ears.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Ugly Dog Pub was just off going into Cashiers. It was a much nicer place than the name suggested, and more family-friendly than I expected. The Dixie Demons must have made an unlikely mix with the usual patrons. I went straight to the bar, took a spot by the waitress station, and ordered a draft beer. It was still a little early for the dinner crowd and only about a half-dozen people were there.

  A waitress came up and plopped her empty tray down on the bar beside me. TThe bartender, a guy about my age, started to come over to her, but she waved him off. She glanced at me, and I said hello. She gave me a quick, standard customer-smile and went back to looking bored.

  “Slow, huh?” I said to her.

  “It’s a Monday. It’ll pick up in an hour or so—I hope,” she added.

  “When you’ve got a moment, I’d like to talk to you.”

  She swept the room with an exaggerated look. “Moments, I’ve got. Customers, I don’t.”

  “Were you working last Friday evening?”

  “If we’re open, I’m working,” she said.

  I placed the photo on her tray. “Do you remember seeing this guy in here?”

  She looked at it. “Is this about them motorcycle guys who were in here? You’re the second guy showed me a picture today. You a cop? He was a cop.”

  “I’m a reporter.” That didn’t seem to impress her. “Was he here?” I asked again.

  She looked back at the picture. “This is a different person than the photograph the cop showed me. This guy, I saw. How could I not? He’s a hunk. Spent a lot of time at the bar hitting on Susan, a regular in here. Wouldn’t surprise me if he went home with her, the way they were carrying on.”

  I seemed to have hit the first pitch out of the park, I thought. “Where can I find this Susan?”

  “I don’t know where she lives, but she works at that picture frame store up the street. If you hang around a little while, she may be in here.”

  I had what I came for, Hound-dog was here. It seemed like a good idea to see what else I could find out before I left. Maybe Hound-dog had headed back to Pickens County before the others, in time to assault Kelly. Perhaps this Susan would know.

  “So, where is this frame store again?” I asked

  “Just around the corner, on the left. Practically walking distance from here.”

  “I think I’ll go try to catch her there,” I said, dropping a fiver on the bar for the beer and heading for the door.

  I found the frame store easily and went inside, a bell over the door announcing my arrival. There were two women behind the counter, one young, one older. I headed for the younger one. She was blonde and pretty, and looked up and smiled at me as I approached.

  “Are you Susan?” I asked.

  “Yes I am, how can I help you?”

  “I’d like to ask you about this guy.” I placed the photograph on the counter.

  She gave it a quick look and glanced nervously at the woman down the counter. She wasn’t paying any attention to us.

  “Not here,” she whispered. “Meet me at a bar called the Ugly Dog in thirty minutes.”

  “Know it well,” I said, picked up the photograph and left.

  Thirty minutes later to the minute, she joined me at the bar. I was having another beer. The waitress was getting her wish and was busy as more people were coming into the pub, and business was picking up.

  “What are you drinking?” I asked as Susan sat down.

  “First, you tell me who you are and what you want.”

  “I’m J.D. Bragg, and I want you to tell me about the guy in the photo.”

  The bartender came over and said, “Vodka tonic, Susan?”

  She nodded yes, and waited until he'd gone.

  “What makes you think I know who he is?” she asked me.

  “Look, I’m not here to make trouble for you or make moral judgments. It’s obvious you recognized the guy in the photo, and you were seen talking to him in here last Friday. So, it’s too late to deny it. All I want to do is ask you a few questions and I’ll be gone.”

  “What makes any of this your business? Are you a policeman?”

  “Worse, I’m a newspaper reporter.” That seemed to alarm her. In truth, it alarmed me too. It was the first time I’d used that title since I’d agreed to help out at the Clarion.

  “I won’t be in the newspaper, will I?” she asked, wearing a troubled look.

  “Absolutely not, all I’m trying to find out is what time he left town.”

  She hesitated and said, “I don’t know what time he left town, but he left my apartment early Saturday morning.”

  “Thank you, Susan,” I said. Hound-dog had his alibi.

  I paid my tab, including her vodka tonic, said goodbye, and headed to South Carolina.

  On the way, I called Bagwell. He was out somewhere, and I talked the dispatcher into patching me through to him, telling her that he was expecting my call, and would be very upset if he didn’t get it. Evidently, he went along with it, and she patched me through.

  I told him what I’d learned in Cashiers and that it was enough to satisfy me with Hound-dog’s alibi. So, I suggested Bagwell close the books on him and if he wanted official proof, I would take him up there and help him get a signed statement from Susan. I didn’t tell him that I didn’t even know her last name, but she told me the truth. Bagwell could do whatever he wanted to do. But I was now onto other suspects—and I didn’t tell him that either.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Tiger’s Tail wasn’t as smoky inside tonight as my first visit. It was Monday, and it wasn’t nearly as crowded. There were two things about the place that were just the same. The Dixie Demons still held court around the pool tables in the back, and Pancho Villa and April were behind the bar serving their respective ends of it. The only difference was that I now knew that Hound-dog didn't assault Kelly, and April Cheney had lied to me.

  April was talking to a couple of hefty guys, one with long black hair and a bandana tied around his head like a renegade Indian. As I made my way toward them, I had an urge to say “How” to him. Not only was it racially insensitive, I’d come here for inform
ation, not a butt-whipping. I didn’t see any Dixie Demon regalia on him, but he could be one of them if looks counted. He was a tough-looking guy. So was the other man, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.

  April looked up as I approached, and it was clear she didn’t like seeing me coming.

  “Hi April, I’d like a Bud and a word with you, if you’ve got a minute,” I said.

  That got the attention of the two big guys. They turned to look at me.

  “Get your beer and fuck off, Jack,” Bandana said. “We’re talking to the lady here.”

  “I’m sorry, chief,” I said (I couldn’t resist). “I’m not trying to break up the pow-wow (again, my urges got the better of me), I just need to speak to the young lady for a minute. Then I’ll be out of your way.”

  “I think you been dissed,” the other guy said to Bandana and chuckled.

  “Yeah,” Bandana said. “And I’m about to show him why he don’t want to do that.”

  “Tone it down, guys,” April said and turned to me. “What do you want to talk to me about?”

  “Kelly Mayfield, I know you know her.”

  She shot a nervous glance around see who was listening. “I’m sorry, I don’t know anybody by that name.”

  I looked around too and didn’t think anyone had heard me. Bandana and his friend were too busy talking about what to do to me. Pancho Villa down the bar was looking at us. I couldn’t see how he could have heard anything with the jukebox blaring and everyone in the place trying to talk over it.

  As April pulled a long-neck Budweiser out of the cooler, she turned and asked, “Do you want to start a tab?” She began to write up a ticket with a pen she’d had stuck behind an ear.

  I waved a fiver at her and told her not to bother. I wasn’t going to be there that long. She didn’t seem to hear me and kept writing. I told her again. She turned and placed a napkin on the bar and set my beer on it. She held my eyes for a moment as if she was trying to tell me something. She wanted me to shut up about Kelly.