Deep South Dead (A Hunter Jones Mystery Book 1)

by Charlotte Moore

  “You’re right,” Taneesha said in a near whisper. “And it’s right by that door to that hallway. Can you e-mail this over to our office so I can show it to Sam?”

  “Sure,” Hunter said, “I was going to make a print, but that way you can zoom in on the details.”

  One of the first decisions Sam Bailey made about the investigation of Mae-Lula Hilliard’s murder was that he needed to rule out one possibility as quickly and quietly as possible.

  As soon as the body was removed from Hilliard House to be sent to the state crime lab and he had caught up with some interesting details from the dispatcher, he walked down the street to Jaybird Hilliard’s realty office.

  He found the commissioner morose and sick looking.

  “I’m sorry about your aunt,” Sam said, “and I hate to bother you right now, but there are some things I need to know. Did you see the Flammonde girl and her friends in town this morning?”

  “This morning? No. I didn’t see them until a little after noon and that was out at the Waffle House by the interstate,” Jaybird said, “I gave them $200 for the petitions they got signed and they were out of there like a bat out of hell. Why?”

  Then he groaned.

  “Oh Lord, Sam, don’t tell me you’re gonna try to pin this on them. Here I just got Marvis Flammonde calmed down about that damn fool mess over at the SaveMart, and if he gets wind of your going around acting like his daughter’s a murder suspect, we can all just kiss that shopping center goodbye.”

  “You seriously think the council’s going to tear down that conservatory between now and the next election with Mae-Lula Hilliard just murdered?” Sam said.

  Jaybird stared at the ceiling for a while, calculating the politics involved. When he finally spoke, the bluster was gone. He was matter-of-fact, weary.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’m not even thinkin’ straight this afternoon. The whole thing’s dead in the water. Doesn’t matter whether those guys killed her or somebody else did. The whole Historical Society is gonna be at that next meeting, weepin’ buckets, and Aunt Mae-Lula is going to get turned into a whatchamacallit, you know, one of those saints that gets tortured to death.”

  “A martyr,” Sam said.

  “Right, a martyr.”

  “Okay, let’s start over,” Sam said, “Our 911 dispatcher got a call this morning from Hayes Lawson. He’s chairman of the Neighborhood Watch over there on Williams Street. He said he saw these two guys dressed funny and they had clipboards and rang his doorbell. He didn’t even open the door, because he was scared of them. Bub drove around there and he said it was Tripp Rocker and that other guy, Eric Bounds. It wasn’t any big deal at the time. Hayes calls two or three times a week, but we do know that they were in the neighborhood, and I’ve got the state patrol and everybody from here to Florida looking for their car.”

  “Damn, this is a mullet supper,” Jaybird said. “You know when Flammonde said his daughter and some of her friends were going to take petitions around, I didn’t know they were going to come down here with her looking like Vampire and them all pierced and tattooed up that way.”

  “I need to see the petitions they got signed,” Sam said.

  “I don’t want them made public,” Jaybird said truculently.

  “Why not? You were going to present them to City Council, weren’t you? That’s about as public as it gets.”

  “No, hell, I’m not going to present them anywhere!” Jaybird exploded. “They didn’t get but about 20 signatures, and one of those is from somebody called himself Prophet Bellweather the Second. If I showed that to the City Council, they’d laugh in my face. I just paid the kids to keep Flammonde happy and so they’d get the hell out of Dodge. Wish I’d kept the money now.”

  “Where are the petitions?” Sam persisted. “Did you throw them away?”

  Jaybird sighed and reached for the trashcan under his desk.

  “Help yourself,” he said, pushing it over toward Sam.

  “I’m going to have to take these with me,” Sam said a few minutes later, holding up one of the petitions by the left hand corner.” This one’s got Tamlyn Borders’ signature with today’s date. She’s Dr. Harrow’s receptionist.”

  He didn’t have to connect the dots for Jaybird. A signature from Harrow’s receptionist meant that the kids were right next door to the Hilliard mansion. He waited for a reaction. Jaybird might be ready to give up on the Flammonde project, but he wouldn’t want people saying that he had anything to do with bringing murderers to town.

  Jaybird got up, came around the desk, put on his glasses and leaned over to squint at the signature. Scowling, he reached for a container of aspirin that was already open on his desk.

  “You don’t know she was at work when she signed it,” he said, shaking out four aspirin. “Maybe they saw her downtown or something.”

  He swallowed all four aspirin at once with the help of something in a plastic cup on his desk, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  “Take it from me, Sam. She used to work here and, she was out of the office every chance she got. Real clock-watcher. She’d be out at lunch, and go buy something during a 15 minute coffee break.”

  Sam let that pass. Tamlyn Borders would be the one to clear it up. He needed to get back to the office and he still hadn’t gotten to his main reason for being in Jaybird’s office.

  “Let’s get back to Brittanie and the other three. You sure they headed for Florida? Did you actually see them get on I-75?”

  “Fact is, I did . I was right behind them to the next exit. I had to make quick run to Cathay. They could be in Florida already, the speed they were going.”

  “And, before that, you spent most of the morning here?” Sam asked, trying to keep it casual.

  It didn’t work.

  Jaybird flushed red with anger.

  “You know it’s a goddamned insult for you to even ask me that, don’t you?”

  Sam didn’t apologize or try to defuse the situation. He waited. He liked letting steamed-up people follow their own tendency to fill all silence with words.

  “I don’t spend all my time sittin’ in this office. I got land and property all over the county and county business, too.”

  Sam waited.

  Jaybird slammed his fist on his desk.

  “Okay, just to get you out of here and back to doing your job, I’ll tell you where I was. Damn straight, I’ll tell you. First thing this morning, at 8:30 a.m. I showed the old Burke house to Warren Thompson and his wife, and then,” he picked up a notebook and stared at it, then reached for his glasses and put them on.

  “Damn straight. I got nothing to hide. While I was out that way I drove out to Burnam Flats to check on a couple of rental houses that just got vacated, make sure they were cleaned up good enough to show and then,” he flipped a page, “You want to know where I was next, I’ll tell you every damn thing I did. I drove over to where they’re building that Royal Pines subdivision to see if they’re puttin’ in the retention pond where they said they were gonna put it. Like I said, I got county business too.”

  “Are they?”

  “Huh?”

  “Are they putting the retention pond where they said they were going to put it?”

  “Yeah. It’s about half done. And after that, I drove all the way from one side of the county to the other to pay those kids $200 for messing the hell up. Now, I got work to do, and you need to be out there findin’ out who killed Aunt Mae-Lula and not goin’ on wild goose chases, thinkin’ those kids came down her and murdered her, or, for God’s sake, that I got to come up with an alibi myself, when she was kin to me. You gonna go over and ask Claire and Robin where they were?”

  He was more subdued when he finished his speech, and they both sat, looking at each other for a moment.

  “Jaybird,” Sam said, “I’m not going to apologize for doing my job. And yes, I’m going to ask Claire and Robin where they were, even though I already know where they were. Now tell me this. You d
on’t seem to think the kids did it. You got any ideas about who killed Miss Mae-Lula? “

  Jaybird slumped in his chair and thought about it.

  “No,” he finally said. “Lots of people didn’t like her, but I don’t see anybody killing her. And I sure don’t see those kids Flammonde sent down here doing it. You remember being that age and trying to get down to Florida on spring vacation?” he asked Sam. “Well, I guess what I think is that those kids didn’t give that much of a damn about the petitions or the shopping center or Merchantsville that they’d kill somebody. I mean, for God’s sake, Sam, they were just trying to make few bucks to buy beer with, and we’re talkin’ about murder. Sure, some people might get away with it sometimes, but it’s a helluva risk. You get caught and you’ve just flushed your whole life down the toilet. “

  Sam nodded, wondering if the commissioner had at some point in his life given some thought to whether or not murder was worth the risk.

  When he got back to the courthouse, Taneesha was waiting for him in the hallway

  “I need five minutes,” she said. “I’ve got something on the murder weapon.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “First thing is, I called Lureen Meadows because Aunt Ramona said that Lureen’s little cleaning service was on contract with Miss Mae-Lula, and Lureen said that Miss Mae-Lula wouldn’t touch that dishwasher with a ten-foot pole. She couldn’t hook it up right and she got sprayed with water once. She just rinsed the dishes and left them in the sink and they loaded up the dishwasher when they came to clean.”

  “Good work,” Sam said. “So somebody else started it.”

  “And,” Taneesha said, “I need to show you something on the computer. It’s a picture Hunter took.”

  Sam studied the picture as Taneesha enlarged the area where the pattern of the griddle was, and then zoomed out to show where it had been hanging.

  He frowned a little.

  “Looks likely,” he said, leaning forward. “When did Hunter take this? I had her put her camera away.”

  “She took a bunch while she was waiting for us to get there after her 911 call,” Taneesha said. “This is the only one she showed me. I’ll go over and find out if she’s got more.”

  “Not now,” Sam said, “This is good enough for me to tell the crime lab about. I guess you and Hunter had a point about the griddle. I can see the whole thing. Whoever it was grabbed the griddle off the wall and then started up the dishwasher to clean it. I’ll send somebody over there to get it.”

  Taneesha grinned.

  “Are you going to tell Hunter that?”

  “Not now and you aren’t either. Right now, I need to get my head together for the press conference and I need you to go find Tamlyn Borders and interview her. It looks like there’s a good chance that Rocker and Bounds were on Hilliard Court this morning and that she talked to them. She signed their petition. You know Tamlyn, don’t you? Skeet’s wife. She’s Dr. Harrow’s receptionist.”

  “Yeah, she was a grade behind me at Magnolia High, and Skeet was a grade ahead,” Taneesha said. “She was Tamlyn Sykes then. We got an address for her?”

  Sam flipped through his notes to his brief earlier interview with Keith Harrow, and tore out a small sheet of paper with a name and phone number.

  “Tilda Ross. That’s his nurse, and her phone number. He didn’t know Tamlyn’s number. Thinks she lives on Old River Road. Tilda’s Skeet’s aunt so she’ll know where they live, and she might know where to find Tamlyn if she’s not at home.”

  “Should I interview Tilda Ross, too?”

  “No, she wasn’t there today. Having some medical tests or something.”

  “Okay, I’m on it, and you’ve got some media folks waiting.”

  Sam’s rules for dealing with the media were simple. Always remember to thank everybody and his brother for helping with investigations. Always remember to express sympathy for the injured or the bereaved. Always say something about the safety of the community being a top priority. Otherwise, say as little as possible, and never, ever say anything “off the record.”

  In the case of Mae-Lula Hilliard’s murder, his main concern was to let the people of Merchantsville know that the sheriff’s office was on the job without actually telling them any details, such as the fact that the Georgia and Florida State Patrol were on the lookout for a red 2002 Mazda southbound toward Daytona, and that Tripp Rocker, 22, of Sandy Springs, and Eric Bounds, 23, of Norcross, Michelle Day, 20, of Dahlonega and Brittanie Flammonde, 19, of Marietta, were all wanted for questioning.

  There were exactly four media representatives at the press conference, which was held in the County Commissioner’s conference room: Hunter Jones from the Messenger, Will Roy Jackson from Magnolia County’s only radio station, WMGX, and a TV team from Macon. Sam had seen the cameraman before. The reporter was new, a pretty girl wearing the requisite turtleneck and blazer, with her reddish hair styled like an afghan hound.

  For a small person, she seemed to take up a lot of space, as did the fidgeting, light-wielding cameraman. Will Roy was obviously annoyed with both of them. Hunter had positioned herself in a far corner.

  The TV reporter, whose name turned out to be Sachet (pronounced Sashay) DeVane, introduced herself with an enormous smile, but didn’t bother to introduce her co-worker.

  Will Roy made his seniority clear by clearing his throat and saying in his deepest baritone, “Hey, Sam, let’s get this show on the road.”

  When Sam sat down at the head of the table, where two microphones were already in place, Sachet immediately began talking to the camera.

  “It’s just not the kind of thing that anybody from this sleepy little town ever expected – a brutal murder in the middle of the day – the murder of an elderly lady in her own home. We’re about to hear from Sheriff Sam Bailey who is…”

  “Wait up!” Will Roy interrupted. “This is a press conference, not your personal interview.”

  “Excuse me. We’re taping!” Sachet hissed at him.

  “Excuse me. I’m taping, too,” Will Roy thundered. “And my listeners don’t need you to tell them somebody was murdered. They know that already. They want to hear from the sheriff.”

  “Both of you be quiet,” Sam said firmly. “And turn off everything.”

  They did.

  “I don’t have time for this as it is,” he said, “and I sure don’t have time for your arguments with each other. You see that clock up there on the wall?”

  They looked.

  “When the second hand gets to twelve,” Sam said, “I am going to read a prepared statement. I have a copy for each one of you. After I finish reading it, you can each ask one question. After that I’m out of here.”

  Sachet looked stunned. Will Roy grinned and watched the clock. Hunter looked amused. The second hand reached 12. Will Roy pushed his record button. The cameraman aimed the camera at Sam.

  “Miss Mae-Lula Hilliard, a lifelong resident of Merchantsville, was found dead in her home on Hilliard Court shortly after 1 p.m. today,” Sam read at a rapid clip. “She was 84 years old and a leader in the community. The cause of death was a fractured skull. We have determined that it was a homicide. My office is investigating the crime with cooperation from the District Attorney’s office, the Georgia Bureau of Investigations and the Georgia State Patrol. We join the entire community in sorrow over the loss of Miss Hilliard, and extend our sympathy to her relatives and close friends. We are determined to identify the person or persons who committed this crime and to make an arrest as quickly as possible. The safety of the people of this community is our top priority.”

  He looked up.

  “Questions?”

  “Have you located the murder weapon?” Hunter asked solemnly.

  “We’re waiting for crime lab reports on that,” Sam answered just as solemnly. “It was a blunt instrument.”

  Sachet nudged the cameraman and jumped in front of the camera.

  “We’re talking with Sheriff Sam Taylor in
Merchantsville,” she proclaimed, “A brutal crime was committed today in this quiet little town.”

  She made a dramatic turn.

  “Sheriff Taylor, an innocent elderly woman has died by the hand of a violent killer. Do you think that the killer is still here in this community? And will the people here ever feel truly safe again?”

  “We don’t know where the killer is,” Sam said. “And I’m not going to speculate about that. As for the people’s safety, I would recommend, as I always do, that people keep the doors to their homes locked and that they call us if they have the least concern about their safety.”

  Will Roy asked his question, before Sachet could jump back in.

  “Will you confirm that the Historical Society’s petitions are missing?”

  Sachet looked bewildered.

  “Yes,” Sam said, “They do seem to be missing, but we don’t know if that has anything to do with the crime. If anybody knows anything about their whereabouts, we urge them to contact us.”

  Bub came through the doorway and signaled to him urgently, just as he had asked him to do.

  “Gotta go,” Sam said. “Sorry.”

  “What was that about petitions?” Sachet asked Will Roy, who was already packing up his equipment.

  “Sorry,” he said, “I don’t give interviews.”

  Sachet turned to Hunter with a smile.

  “I bet you know everything,” she said, turning cute and friendly, like a long lost college roommate. “Help me out a little here. I mean I don’t know a soul down here, and that sheriff hardly said anything and we’re trying to get this ready for the 11 o’clock news.”

  “Don’t you tell her a thing,” Will Roy said to Hunter. “Me and you, we get it all covered, day after day, week after week, and then as soon as there’s a big story, here they come running down here from Macon trying to take over. You wait. The Macon paper’ll be down here by morning.”