by Linda Lovely
“What? Why would Chester Finley or his friends come after Zack?” the sheriff looked genuinely puzzled.
“Zack slugged Chester a little over an hour ago,” Paint began, explaining that the quarterback had decked the idiot in retaliation for Chester’s sucker-punch.
“Great, just great.” The sheriff sighed. “Andy, you—and you alone—take me back to where you found the victim. No sense contaminating the crime scene more than it already is. The rest of you head to the sheriff’s department where an officer can take your statements. Looks to be a long night.”
The sheriff briefly glanced in my direction. “You can put on street clothes first, but don’t go talking to anyone but our officers. No reporters. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Grateful and relieved I headed to the cabin to exchange my siren-of-the-sea costume for well-worn jeans and a sweatshirt. I was happy to avoid another look at the crime scene. My mind kept revisiting the blood drip, drip, dripping from the pitchfork’s long, sharp tines. I shuddered, thinking about the needle-like ends thrusting into Zack. Had he seen it coming? Did he recognize his attacker?
I prayed Zack would recover quickly. That he’d be able to tell officers which of Chester’s maniac followers had attacked him. I shared my friends’ suspicions that one of Chester’s crew must have sneaked back to even the score with Zack.
But evil isn’t always so obvious. There were other possibilities. Could Zack have acquired new enemies in Las Vegas? Or had one of the quarterback’s long-time foes stalked him and seized on the barn’s shadows to strike?
No one had mentioned seeing either of the homegrown enemies who’d threatened to come and taunt Zack.
Braunshweiger on a bun. Costumes and masks sure complicated things.
SEVEN
I met Eva inside the cabin as she grabbed the keys to her truck. “I’m going to the hospital to be with Carol,” she said.
“Is Billy going with you?” I asked.
Billy Jackson, a farrier who shoes our equines, slides his own shoes under Aunt Eva’s bed at least twice a week. Both my aunt and Billy are independent cusses, and the informal arrangement suits them, though it sometimes bugs my mom and dad.
“No. I asked him to stay here tonight. I don’t want you here alone. He was planning to stay anyway to help with tomorrow’s clean-up.”
“The sheriff wants me to come to the station, but I’ll come back to Udderly as soon as I can,” I said. “Billy and I can handle the morning chores if you want to stay at the hospital.”
“Good,” Eva answered. “Our part-timers should show up in the morning, like always, for Saturday chores. The sheriff said only the horse barn will be kept off limits. That won’t interfere with milking the goats or any of our other regular farm chores.”
I glanced out the cabin window and saw a sea of headlights.
“Looks like the exodus is going to take a while,” I said.
“The sheriff promised his deputies would clear the way for me,” Eva said. “They’re taking names and contact information before people are allowed to leave. But they’ll waive me through.”
“Call your folks,” she added. “They’re bound to hear a news report and worry about you.”
My parents were in Iowa for a long weekend, attending some sort of reunion at Iowa State University, where Dad got his PhD and taught while I was growing up. Dad accepted the offer to head the horticultural department at Clemson University after I was in college. Now my folks live in Clemson, not far from the Ardon County line.
“Will do,” I promised.
Eva kissed my cheek. “Probably be late morning before I’m back. Take care. Love you.”
“Love you, too,” I replied.
Eva barely cleared the cabin’s doorway when Mollye bustled in. My friend had taken a short detour to have a few words with Deputy Danny, her casual sweetie.
“Thought you’d be changed by now,” Mollye said. “Or have you decided to leave on those oversized pasties. They definitely advertise your charms. Danny says reporters, including a TV truck, have gathered outside the gate. The deputies put up a roadblock to keep them out.”
I gave Mollye a withering look. “You’re the one who suckered me into wearing this.”
“Yeah, I did.” She laughed as she peeled off her costume, which had a front zipper hidden beneath protruding fruit.
“Lucky I changed clothes here or I’d have been forced to appear at the station as Carmen Miranda—whoever she is. Mom says this Carmen lady used to appear on TV wearing some sort of fruity hat back in the day. Who knew I was so retro?”
I quickly slipped on jeans and a bright orange Clemson sweatshirt. Mollye, a quick-change artist if I ever saw one, was back in her made-for-the-movies gypsy attire. Did I dare tell her that her everyday attire looked retro, too? In this case, sixties hippie.
“Let’s take my van,” Moll said. “I’ll bring you back when we finish. I Imagine Danny will still be here. That’ll give me a chance to pump him for info.”
Paint met us on the porch and asked to bum a ride to the sheriff’s office. He’d driven to the farm with Andy, who was still in the barn with the sheriff.
Paint took shotgun and I squeezed into the backseat amid magical witches’ balls, bottles of medicinal herbs, and other miscellaneous boxes that always littered Moll’s van. As we maneuvered into the farm’s gravel drive, a friendly soul let us cut into the line of vehicles waiting to be released by the officers manning the gate.
“Man, there was a lot of blood.” Paint shuddered. “I sure hope Zack’s injuries don’t kill his career. Goes to show, one minute you’re on top of the world, the next some psycho’s trying to skewer you like a shish kebab.”
“I told the sheriff Zack’s attacker was probably one of the CAVE men,” Mollye said. “But I can’t rule out Pam or Fred. Did you see either of them tonight?”
Paint shook his head. “Doesn’t mean they weren’t here. Folks arrived at the haunted barn in clusters. Lots of people just handed over money and didn’t say a word. A loner or two could easily have slipped in at the tail end of a group of friends. Any tag-alongs would have looked like they were part of the crowd.”
“Linda, Carol’s campaign manager, took lots of photos as people arrived,” I said. “I think she posted the pictures on Instagram and Carol’s Facebook page. Maybe if we look through those candid shots, we can draw up a list of attendees.”
Mollye hooted. “You do like to do things the hard way, Miss Vegan. All we need to do is check the guest book. People signed in as they arrived.”
Paint waggled a finger at Mollye. “You shouldn’t poke fun at Udderly’s most-accomplished snoop. Brie has a point. Easy to slip by without signing in. Besides the sign-in names could be bogus. Who’d question what name you scribbled if you were dressed like a zombie or an alien? We should look at the photos and the sign-ins.”
I sighed. “If our attacker was trying to avoid notice, he—or she—could have opted for a costume that offered a complete disguise. Maybe the pictures and guestbook are both dead ends.”
We lapsed into silence until we arrived at the gate, and Moll rolled down the window to speak to the deputy who was freeing party-goers one vehicle at a time.
“Hi, Joe.”
Figured. Moll seemed to know all the Ardon County deputies.
“Hey, Mollye,” Joe answered. “You’re headed to the sheriff’s office, right?”
“Yes, and I’m bringing David alias ‘Paint’ Paynter and Brie Hooker with me so you can check off their names too. Sheriff Mason asked us to head to the station to give our statements.”
“Okay,” Joe said. “Good luck running the media gauntlet. Reporters are starting to swarm like yellow jackets.”
He waved us on, and a state trooper directed us into a breakdown lane on the narrow state road. Media vehicles dotted the verge on both sides of the
blacktop.
“Must have called in law enforcement from three counties by now,” Paint observed. “Just spotted Pickens County cruisers along with state police vehicles. Hey, I hear a chopper, too. Wonder if State Patrol sent a helicopter? ’Course it might belong to a TV station, though there’s not much to take pictures of this time of night.”
I glanced out the window. “Maybe the chopper is looking for Chester’s hearse or the motorcycles and truck in his gate-crashing parade. Wonder if anyone got their licenses.”
“I’m sure plenty of people at Carol’s fundraiser recognized all the CAVE gate crashers,” Moll said. “They’re not exactly low profile. Wouldn’t be hard to figure out who owns the vehicles.”
“So if one of the CAVE men attacked Zack, would he hang around or put Ardon County a couple hundred miles behind him?”
Mollye shuddered. “I have a feeling he’s still close by. And I get the sense he’s scared. Feels cornered. That makes him dangerous.”
I tended to believe my friend’s premonitions were mostly the product of her very creative and over-active imagination, not actual psychic whispers. She admitted as much.
That didn’t prevent a shiver from sneaking up my spine.
EIGHT
The Sheriff’s Department was located in a fairly new building on the outskirts of the Town of Ardon. I was well aware of its location, having previously been interrogated there as a murder suspect. Being a potential witness was a big step in the right direction.
When we arrived, the parking lot was lit up like Walmart on Christmas Eve. At least five of the vehicles in the jammed lot sported TV call letters or newspaper logos. A dozen people huddled just outside the station entrance. Once access to the scene of the attack was closed off, the news hounds must have drifted here in hopes of sniffing out a lead. They appeared ready to pounce on any possible eyewitness in the hopes of getting a juicy sound bite.
Ardon is a rural county, and Greenville is the nearest sizeable metro area. However, Zack Strong’s football fame and Carol’s political ambitions meant a gaggle of media stringers, affiliates, and blog tipsters would be working the story. This assemblage just represented the early scouts.
Mollye grabbed a fistful of business cards before she hopped out of the van.
“Really, Mollye?” I groaned.
Paint laughed.
“Hey, I’m not gonna say a word, but it won’t hurt to try and tempt ’em to drop by my store for a take-home souvenir.”
“You never cease to amaze me, Mollye,” Paint said. “Glad you haven’t added moonshine or whisky to your inventory. If you were a competitor, you’d probably steal all my Magic Moonshine customers in a month.”
Paint used his imposing six-foot-four frame to clear a path for us through the loitering reporters. I heard shouted questions, but, with so much competing noise, the content was gibberish. The only intelligible things I could make out were Carol’s and Zack’s names.
I wondered if these folks were staking out the sheriff’s department in hopes of identifying “persons of interest.” That passing thought made me wonder if we might run into Chester or other CAVE men inside.
I pushed hard on the front door, happy to escape the din. A deputy checked off our names and sent us to cool our heels in what appeared to be a squad or meeting room. Rows of uncomfortable looking chairs were lined up facing a large whiteboard at the front of the room.
“Wait here,” our escort ordered. “We’ll call you in one at a time to take statements. Help yourself to coffee if you like. There’s a fresh pot over there.”
They called Paint first. Mollye and I poured ourselves coffee which, contrary to popular cop mythology, proved excellent.
Mollye pulled out her cell phone. “I’m going to see what folks are saying and if any pictures have been posted.”
She started laughing, not exactly appropriate conduct while waiting for officers to interview you about a horrible assault.
“Shhh,” I admonished.
She shoved her screen my way. The image did not tickle my funny bone. The photographer had caught me running practically “neckid” after discarding my costume’s fish tail in the interest of speed. Fortunately my blonde wig and half-mask were still in place.
“Did you see the caption?” Moll’s braying laugh subsided into periodic giggles.
I quickly scanned the copy. It read: “Hysterical mystery blonde runs from Zack Strong crime scene. Is she the lover Z’s kept under wraps?”
I gasped. “Pickled pigs feet. How would anyone get that idea?”
Opening my own cell phone, I started perusing posts, starting with Facebook. Yep, my photo had gone viral. While some posts theorized the mystery blonde was Zack’s current lover, others suggested the running woman having a bad hair day was a spurned lover. One post asked, “Did this madwoman attack Zack in a fit of rage?”
“The good news is I saved you with that wig and mask,” Mollye said. “Haven’t seen a single picture of a bare-faced and wigless mermaid. Too bad you took them off when we were jawing with the sheriff. Imagine someone took photos of you with Mason that will show up sooner or later.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “So nice to be offered up as a murder suspect again. At least this time law officers won’t be promoting the theory. I was quite visible—thanks to you—from the time the Halloween party started. Lots of alibi witnesses.”
The most ridiculous, breathless accounts were posted by bloggers and anonymous contributors on digital tabloid sites. Here, I was not only a murder suspect, but there were speculative stories of why I’d become deranged enough to attack Zack. In some, I’d found out he was cheating on me. In others, I was a victim of domestic abuse. The most common? I was pregnant. Great. Hard to get pregnant when you hadn’t actually had sex in—oh, no could it be that long?—nineteen long, very long months.
When Paint emerged from the “interview” room, the plainclothes detective called Mollye’s name.
Paint sat beside me. I turned off my phone. Wasn’t about to show him the posts we’d been scanning on social media.
“So did the officer ask you anything new?” I wondered. “Or did he just repeat the same questions the sheriff already asked us?”
“There was one new twist,” Paint said. “He asked me if I’d seen Zack talking on his phone. Zack had a wallet on him but no cell phone. I told him I was pretty sure I’d seen him checking something on it earlier. Apparently it’s missing.”
“Did he give you any hint of who they think might have had a motive to attack Zack?”
“Not really. Detective Nettles was a year ahead of me at Ardon High. He knew almost as much as I did about any enemies from Zack’s high school days. So we zipped right ahead to any recent history between Zack and Chester Finley before tonight’s brawl. I couldn’t help him out there.
“I told him about the rumor Mollye’d heard that Pam North or Fred Baxter might show. Pretty sure he already planned to check their alibis. His questions did prompt me to wonder who might benefit if Zack never threw a football again. That added one more person to my suspect list.”
“Who?”
“Doug Hayes, the Aces’ quarterback Zack dethroned. Doug’s fully recovered from the injury that sidelined him. Now Doug will have a shot to lead his team again. A chance at a Super Bowl ring and endorsement money.”
“Hope the sheriff checks out Doug’s alibi.”
“He said he would. But I doubt he’ll need to. Some media type is certain to track Doug down for comments. It’s a huge sports story. The sheriff will know soon enough if Doug’s in Nevada or lurking about Ardon County, South Carolina. Besides, the idea’s pretty far-fetched. I’ve met Doug. He’s visited Ardon with Zack a couple of times. They seemed real tight.”
“But Doug wouldn’t need to be here,” I insisted. “He could have hired someone.”
“Hiring goons is r
isky,” Paint answered. “Doug’s smart. Can’t see him paying some hoodlum who’d give him up in a New York minute. They always do. And, like I told you, he and Zack are buddies.”
I chewed on my lip as I mentally ran through the few minutes I’d spent in the celebrity quarterback’s presence. “What about Zack’s complaint that some people think they own a piece of him?”
Paint shrugged. “Sounded to me like Zack was saying fame and money aren’t everything. May have been trying to make his old teammates feel less jealous. I mean he dropped the subject real quick and went back to ribbing Andy and me. He also turned his charms on you, which didn’t make my day.”
Paint draped an arm around my shoulder. “Can’t pretend I don’t notice, Brie. Andy and I talked it over again last week. This ‘we musketeers’ bit is killing us. We both want you as a friend. But one day some lucky guy will win more than smiles from you. We’d rather it be one of us than some stranger—or the likes of Zack. Won’t you reconsider? Date both of us. We can handle it. Promise. Talk to Andy, he’s totally on board.”
Yowzer. Hadn’t seen that coming. An excited tingling in my gut said yippee. My uncooperative brain warned against making an important, emotional decision in the midst of a crisis.
“Will you consider it?”
I took Paint’s hand and squeezed it. “I’ve told you and Andy how much I care about the two of you. I couldn’t bear losing either of you as a friend. But I admit I think about my dates with you and Andy. Can’t forget them.”
Not exactly an answer.
Mollye sashayed back into the squad room. Her visit with the detective proved much briefer than Paint’s. I expected my turn would be even shorter since I had nada to add. Once we finished our spooky decorating project late afternoon, I didn’t go back inside the barn until I ran in after Zack’s attack. What’s more, I’d just met the quarterback and I’d never laid eyes on Chester until a few hours ago. I knew zero dirt about anyone with a potential grudge.
