Southern Harm

by Caroline Fardig

  Rubbing his forehead, he said, “Wow, that was a long time ago. Um…the only one who I remember a last name for is Angie Potter, but who knows if that’s still her name. She and Esther were more like enemies than friends, so I don’t know how much Angie would be able to tell you.”

  “No, that’s great. Every little bit helps. Thank you for your time, Grady. One more question—did you ever see any men visit Esther while she was working, or maybe pick her up after work?”

  “There were a couple of high schoolers who would come in and stare at her while she worked. Boys, not men. But I do remember once there was an older guy out in the parking lot arguing with her after her shift. When he saw me, he left. I didn’t get a good look at him. She said it was her uncle, but something about the way he was talking to her and touching her made me think they weren’t related. She normally got off later than I did, so I rarely saw her leaving work.”

  “Did she ever talk about any boyfriends or men she was seeing?”

  A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “I heard all about her big breakup with her football star boyfriend.”

  “But nothing about who she was cheating on him with?”

  He chuckled uncomfortably. “No, that didn’t come up.”

  I nodded, wishing yet again I could have been lucky enough (or experienced enough in the art of interrogation) to obtain the one elusive nugget of information that would blow this thing wide open. “Thanks again for speaking to me.”

  “My pleasure. Come back and see us.” He waved and headed toward the kitchen.

  Tucker’s face was dark with concern. “You and Delilah visited this Earl person?”

  “Yes, but in the middle of the restaurant he owns. Tucker, I promise we’re being safe about this.”

  “I appreciate that, but whoever the killer is has been exceptionally good at hiding his or her crime and identity for over thirty years. You go poking around in the wrong place, and you could put yourself in danger without even knowing it.”

  I took his hands. “Nothing is going to happen to me. Now, let’s get you home. You’re going to need your rest for tomorrow.”

  As Tucker drove us home, I stole a glance at his stony profile in the darkened cab of his truck. I’d never known him to be like this, so downtrodden and sad. And afraid. His demeanor only made me more determined to find something that would get his aunt out of jail once and for all.

  His mood wasn’t the only thing bothering me. When we were leaving the restaurant, I’d had the distinct feeling that someone was watching us. Without trying to raise any suspicion with Tucker, I’d scanned the area, but couldn’t locate anyone loitering or openly staring. Maybe I was being paranoid. After all, I was stressed, tired, and frustrated beyond belief.

  All I wanted for Christmas was for everything to go back to normal.

  Chapter 25

  I headed straight for Delilah’s room when I got back to the B&B. She was deep in concentration, sitting on her bed, surrounded by papers both crumpled and freshly printed. She was typing furiously at her laptop, and her hair was twisted into a knot on top of her head and held with two pencils.

  As I approached her, I said, “I hope you have more exciting news than I do.”

  She looked up from what she was doing. “If you call two people independently pointing the finger straight at the same likely suspect—with some legit facts to back it up—exciting, then I’m your woman.”

  “Nice. Do tell.”

  “I spoke to Daniel Patton, who used to be principal of Reynolds High. He’s a pretty old guy in an old folks’ home, but he totally has his wits about him. Anyway, he’s leaning toward Dennis Griffin, that teacher who Portia mentioned. According to Patton, there was always something about Griffin that rubbed him the wrong way. He was thrilled when Griffin turned in his resignation on graduation day. He said he was moving on.”

  Grady Stewart’s assessment of Earl Settle’s behavior on the night Esther quit was way more disturbing than the fact that a teacher the principal didn’t like quit his job on the last day of school.

  “What is the ‘legit fact’ in what you said?”

  “Connect the dots. Griffin was ‘moving on’—as in skipping town after committing murder.”

  “The phrase ‘moving on’ could mean anything—he didn’t necessarily mean he was literally moving out of town. He could have meant ‘moving on’ to a new job. There’s no crime in that.”

  “Maybe not, but what about the fact that Sadie Thompson, a fellow teacher, said essentially the same thing, plus told me she saw him and Esther arguing on a regular basis, especially in his classroom after school?”

  “Lots of students argue with teachers on a regular basis. You did.”

  She ignored my remark. “Sadie was only too happy to tell me all about how much of a freak show that guy was. He had no interests outside of school and lived in a rented room at a Catholic priests’ rectory, of all places. All he ever did was grade papers and attend every sporting event the school had—only to sit by himself and read a book.”

  In my mind, she was making a case for him not to be a murderer. “Sadie Thompson is one of Portia’s suspects. If she realized that was why you sought her out, of course she was doing her best to cast doubt on someone else.”

  “Yes, but I feel like she’s clean. And speaking of that, don’t forget Griffin was one of the suspects Portia mentioned, too. She said he had a real problem with how Esther seemed to have the power to rule the school. Maybe he thought he needed to teach her a life lesson. According to everyone I talked to, no one else was so openly angry toward her at school. Seriously. Connect the dots.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Pardon the sarcasm, dear sister, but you do know how ‘connect the dots’ works, right? There have to be other dots between the first dot and the final dot…to make a connection.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Three people think this Griffin guy could have killed someone, and that’s not enough dots for you?”

  I remembered back to my conversation with Violet from this morning and felt like I did owe it to my sister to admit, “Not that I’m condoning we dogpile this man with no evidence…but if we’re counting accusatory dots, then it’s technically four. Violet Huggins mentioned him to me this morning as a possible suspect because of his blatant anger toward Esther.”

  “Ha!” she cried, stabbing her finger in my direction. “See? There’s all kinds of dots! And why are you the devil’s advocate all of a sudden?”

  I shrugged. “Because of the timing. The guy was rid of Esther on graduation day. Why kill her that night? He had no motive at that point. Maybe I could get behind him being the killer if her death had occurred earlier in the year, when it would have benefited him to make her disappear from his life. Plus, Dad said the guy was too much of a loser to be able to kill anyone.”

  “Takes one to know one,” she muttered.

  Frowning, I said sternly, “Delilah Jane Bellandini, you do not speak about our father that way.”

  “You’re too young to remember what it was like—” She stopped herself, shaking her head as if to clear it. She changed the subject. “Look at the situation differently. I’m thinking Griffin had some kind of weird obsession with Esther rather than simply a personality conflict. Multiple people noticed how strangely he acted toward her, and it struck them as odd enough to mention it over thirty years later. You can’t overlook that.”

  “I agree that maybe there could have been more to the dynamic between the two of them. But I still say motive matters. She didn’t really do anything to him aside from causing a little trouble in his class.”

  Deep in thought, she stared off into space and mused, “So say he did decide to teach her a lesson…”

  “How does killing someone teach them anything?”

  She shushed me, waving her hand at me as if I were some pesky insect. “Don�
��t interrupt when I’m spitballing. I’m thinking he’d been planning for a while to kill her. If he was smart, part of his plan would include that he be nowhere near this town when her body was discovered.”

  “Okay…but he still lives here. Explain that.”

  “That is beside the point right now. I’m connecting dots.”

  “I’m afraid that particular point may negate one of your dots.”

  My sister responded by hurling a pillow at my head.

  I tossed it back at her. “Look, you said he can be found at one of our local bars most nights. Let’s quit spitballing and go ask him outright.”

  Her eyes bugged out. “You want to go confront a murderer? That’s awesome!”

  “D, I don’t think he’s our guy. I’m not perceiving any danger here.” The more I’d thought about him today, the more I believed he wasn’t who we were looking for.

  Hopping up from her bed, she ripped the pencils from her hair and fluffed it as best she could with her hands. “Let’s go before you change your mind.”

  On the way over to see Dennis Griffin, I told Delilah about my conversations with Violet and Grady. And tried to use actual facts to back up my lack of suspicion about her prime suspect.

  “Another reason I don’t like Griffin for this is because of what Grady said about Earl Settle. Old Earl got physically violent the night Esther quit on him, so much so that Grady felt the need to protect her and lost his job in the process. Earl lied to us about how the end of their working relationship went down. Big red flag.”

  She nodded absently, concentrating on trying to find a parking space on Abercorn Street. “I guess.”

  “Also, according to Violet and Dad, Brock Sheridan beat up Tim Carter for nosing around Esther. And then he even hit Dad for trying to explain that Esther encouraged it so she could get Tim to do her schoolwork for her.”

  “Mmm.”

  “I realize Brock is your new BFF’s hubby, but he’s still a valid suspect.”

  She pulled into a spot and put her truck in gear. “Eh. I don’t know that I’d call him a suspect.”

  This was what I didn’t like about us dividing up our interviews. Delilah and I would often draw different conclusions after participating in the same conversation. When only one of us talked to someone (and read their non-verbal signals), we were only catching one interpretation of the story. That was why we made such a good team—our outlooks were so different, we had different takes on the same situation that when put together would draw the full picture. Even if it took longer, we should probably consider sticking together from now on.

  Plus, as we exited her truck, I got that uneasy feeling again—like someone’s eyes were on me. The hairs on my arms stood at attention under my jacket, but I wasn’t cold.

  I took my sister’s arm and pulled her toward me, whispering, “Do you feel like someone’s out there…watching us?” She began to turn her head, but I hissed, “Don’t be obvious.”

  Nodding, she made a show of stopping at the street and looking both ways before we crossed. She murmured, “I’m not sure. Maybe. It’s hard to say when there are a couple dozen people milling around between the bars and restaurants on this block. Let’s keep an eye out, though. And whatever you do, don’t tell Tucker.”

  We hurried to the safety of the bar, which was about half full with mostly well-to-do tourists, but there were a few patrons who were giving off a local vibe. We spied a man behind the bar who resembled Dennis Griffin’s yearbook photo from back in the day, even down to the jaunty bow tie he was sporting. He’d been a handsome young man, and the years had been kind to him. He didn’t seem terribly older than my parents, likely having been a fairly new teacher when they were seniors.

  Delilah hopped up onto a barstool and put on her flirty smile. “Is Dennis working tonight?”

  I slid onto the seat next to hers. “We hear he makes the best Moscow mule in town.” I didn’t know that for a fact, but after spying an assortment of high-end vodkas displayed prominently behind the bar near a showy cluster of hammered copper mugs, I made an educated guess.

  The man smiled. “I’m Dennis. And the rumors are true—I do make a pretty mean mule. How are you two ladies doing tonight?”

  “Well, thank you,” I replied.

  Delilah gave him a thumbs-up.

  He leaned against the bar, acting like he had all the time in the world to shoot the breeze with us. That could work to our advantage. “What brings y’all to Savannah? Visiting family during the holidays? Or just for fun?”

  Delilah scoffed, “We’re locals. Don’t tell me you mistook us for tourists.”

  Grinning, Dennis said, “I apologize if I’ve offended, ma’am. Pardon the mistake. I don’t recall seeing you in here before.”

  I said, “I guess it’s our first time. We run a B&B, so we don’t get out much. It’s not a forty-hours-per-week job.”

  “That it isn’t. Well, I’m flattered that you chose our humble establishment for one of your few and far between nights on the town. Can I get you each a Moscow mule to start?”

  Delilah nodded.

  I replied, “Yes, please.”

  “Coming right up.” He left us to go make our drinks.

  I turned on my barstool to face my sister. “A real freak show, this guy. Your pal Sadie was either wrong or lying to make herself look better.”

  “The jury is still out on him. We need to question him before we know for sure.”

  “If he’d been my teacher, I would have had a hard time concentrating on my schoolwork. I’m not getting a losery vibe at all.”

  “Sociopaths are always handsome and personable.”

  I rolled my eyes. “He’s a sociopath now? What is your problem?”

  “I have a feeling about him.”

  “Me, too. That he’s not a murderer. I say we use our time to grill him about Brock Sheridan.”

  She turned to me, hissing, “Keep it down. You can’t go around saying stuff like that in this town.”

  “Why? Are you protecting me—or your friendship with his wife? Whatever happened to ‘government officials don’t get a pass on investigations’?”

  “Don’t quote me at me.”

  “Then don’t be biased.”

  “So Brock punched a couple of guys in order to defend his girlfriend’s honor. Big deal. High school boys throw punches at one another for far less, and the next stop isn’t Murdertown.”

  “It could be when the girlfriend in question dumps you a week before graduation and starts hanging out with the new guy who helped her cheat on you.”

  “If he had such a penchant for beating up other guys, why didn’t he go after the new boyfriend instead of her?”

  I said ominously, “Maybe he did, and it was a double murder. Maybe the mystery boyfriend’s bones are buried in someone else’s yard.” I couldn’t suppress the smile that was forming in the corner of my mouth.

  Delilah glared at me. “I don’t think I like the cocky attitude and sarcasm you’ve developed since that last murder. It’s like something shook loose inside you. You’re definitely not as uptight, either. At least not all the time like before.”

  Shrugging, I said, “Well, a near-death experience does tend to change a person.”

  “Or maybe it’s Tucker’s influence. He’s pretty sassy.” Her face fell. “When he’s not busy being so sad. Is he okay? I’m starting to worry about him.”

  Before I could answer, Dennis returned with two glistening copper mugs overfilled with chipped ice and garnished with a slice of lime and a sprig of mint. “Here you go, ladies. Two Moscow mules. Can I get you anything else?”

  Without missing a beat, Delilah leaned across the bar. “Your phone number.”

  I tried really hard not to cringe. He might have been a silver fox, but he was older than our dad.

&nbs
p; A flash of something crossed Dennis’s face, extinguishing his smile. “Um…I…I’m not up for dating right now. But thank you for the kind offer, ma’am.”

  Delilah put on an expression of embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just got out of a long relationship, and I’m trying to put myself out there more…I’m afraid I don’t remember how this dating stuff works.”

  “Oh,” he replied, seeming relieved. “Well, if you don’t mind a little friendly advice from someone who watches people try to pick each other up on a daily basis, wait until later in the conversation to ask for a number.”

  She nodded, regarding him like he was the Dalai Lama of dating. I had no idea where she was going with this. “That’s great advice. Were you a psychologist in a past life?” There it was. My sister, the genius. Her magic in twisting a conversation was another skill I lacked.

  He chuckled and grabbed a towel to wipe up a wet spot on the bar top. “No. I was a teacher, actually.”

  “No way.” Delilah gestured at me. “Quinn used to be a teacher, too.”

  I snapped to attention and tried to channel what Delilah would say. “Yes, I was a teacher until…I figured out I didn’t actually like kids.” I forced out a giggle. “Once I realized that, I couldn’t wait for the last day of the school year so I could march right into my micromanaging principal’s office and resign. Best decision I ever made.”

  “Sounds a bit like my story.”

  When he didn’t elaborate, I asked, “Where did you teach?”

  “Reynolds High.”

  Delilah said, “Our parents went there. Class of eighty-six. Were you around then, by chance?”

  His eyes widened. “I was.”

  “Oh, well then did you know Esther Sinclair, too? They just found her remains. It’s been all over the news. They say she died back in eighty-six, right around graduation.”

  Swallowing audibly, he backed away from us and said, “You’ll, uh…you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got some…some other patrons to help.” But instead of waiting on anyone else seated at the bar, he disappeared into a back room.