by Linda Lovely
I smiled. “Bet you can’t describe him either.”
“Ma’am?” His head jerked up. His eyes seemed as active as his left foot, dancing back and forth like he was scouting an escape route. Was I that threatening?
“Just figured your prospect was in costume,” I added. “Recall how he was dressed? Maybe I know him.”
“Don’t rightly remember. I know Zack got hurt last night. We went to school together. Will he be all right?”
“Too soon to know. What’s your name? I’ll let Zack’s mom know you asked about him.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Gotta go. Late for work.”
He turned and practically ran to his car.
He looked so innocuous. But his behavior made me wonder. Could he possibly be Zack’s attacker?
I memorized his license plate and hurried inside to call the sheriff. He was out but I left a message. The strange encounter left me wondering why he’d come and who he might be. I doubted the sheriff would enlighten me anytime soon. I’d have to ask my friends which of their classmates had gone prematurely bald.
Eva returned around lunch time, exhausted. Airlines could assess a surcharge for the size of the bags under her eyes.
I gave her a big hug. “How’s Zack doing? And how is Carol holding up?”
My aunt sighed. “The surgery went well, though the docs won’t say if Zack’ll be able to play football again. Brain trauma’s the biggest worry. They induced a coma and lowered his body temperature to give his brain a better chance to heal. He could be in a coma for days.”
“Sounds like it’ll be a long haul. You should go to bed, get some rest. The four musketeers—Paint, Andy, Mollye, and me—along with Udderly’s regular help have finished all the chores. Nothing you need to do.”
“What I need to do is take a shower, change clothes, and go back to the hospital,” Eva countered.
I shook my head. “A zombie won’t do Carol any good. You need some sleep.”
“Well, maybe a short nap.”
“Deal. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Just keep Udderly running and don’t eat all the profits. Sooner or later your DNA will kick in. You are descended from a long line of dedicated cheese-aholics. You can’t hold out forever.”
“Funny. You’re really pooped if you’ve lowered yourself to lame cheese insults. Go to bed. I need your truck to run some errands. I’ll leave the keys to my Prius by the door in case there’s an emergency.”
Eva made a face. “Not sure I want to drive your car. All those dents. People might think I’m the bad driver.”
A low blow. My high auto deductible was the reason I hadn’t undone the dings inflicted on my Prius when a truck intentionally butted me into a ditch. Dings weren’t a priority. Every penny I scraped together went toward Summer Place renovations.
“I’ll be back late afternoon to wake you. There’s a pot of vegetable soup on simmer. I won’t even groan when you muck it up with cheese.”
I kissed Eva’s cheek and hurried to escape before my aunt could ask what errands required me to drive her pickup truck. This past summer she’d forced me to get comfortable with her elderly Ford’s stick shift. While my driving skills now passed muster, I doubted she’d approve of my afternoon destinations.
My first appointment was with Pam North. I’d googled her and found she was an Ardon Realty agent. I had a good excuse to pay her a visit. She’d listed a derelict property right behind Summer Place. The abandoned trailer on that lot was covered with so many vines it could pass as an ancient burial mound. Though I doubted I could scrape together enough cash to buy the property, I had a keen interest in its future.
Since Ardon County had zero zoning, the property’s future owners could do whatever they wanted with the land. A chicken farm or landfill in my future B&B’s backyard wouldn’t exactly lend luster to its allure.
Ardon Realty occupied what looked like an overgrown dollhouse. Colorful pansies nodded from window boxes, while bright green shutters contrasted nicely with the clapboard’s fresh white paint.
Since there was no bell, I knocked once and walked in. A woman, the only occupant, sat behind one of two desks in the open space. Pam, I presumed.
“Hi, you must be Brie Hooker. A real pleasure to meet you,” Pam gushed as she stood to greet me. She wore stretchy tight pants, and a clingy sweater. A wide belt cinched her wasp waist, emphasizing the hour-glass figure that once made Zack and presumably other high school males drool.
Yet from the neck up the thirty-four-year-old looked like a middle-aged throwback to her mother’s or maybe her grandmother’s era. Her hair was permed in a tight poodle do and dyed a black that made coal look gray. Heavy makeup failed to hide frown lines that formed sad, pouting sentries around her pursed lips.
“Have a seat,” she invited. “You say you’re interested in the property I listed behind Summer Place?”
I took the chair opposite her desk. “Yes. What’s the asking price?”
“One-hundred thousand.”
I almost choked. Somehow she’d answered without giggling at her absurd joke.
“You’re kidding.”
“Oh, no. Location, location, location. All of us real estate professionals are pleased you’re fixing up Summer Place, a genuine, historic beauty. That increases the value of adjacent properties. Plus the lot’s so close to Clemson, and you know how our charming campus city is exploding. There’s high developer demand for land to build condos, student apartments.”
Pam’s high-pitched voice made me think she might have had a career in the opera as one of those sopranos who can shatter glass. Never been a great opera fan.
Stinky blue cheese. All right, maybe her message upped my annoyance at her tone. The sweat equity I was pouring into Summer Place was helping others reap profits on land they’d always treated as a place to dump trash. A year ago, I probably could have bought the seedy lot behind my property for a pittance. Did squinty-eyed Pam truly believe anyone in her right mind would pay a hundred grand for an acre of waist-high weeds and bramble topped with a rusted out trailer?
“You’re the listing agent, right?” I asked. “Are the owners eager to sell? What do you think they might accept?”
Pam’s blue eyes widened, sure she had a sucker on the line.
She put her hand beside her mouth and whispered. “Confidentially, they’re a little strapped. Just between us girls, I think they might accept eighty-five thousand.”
I did my best to match Pam’s fake smile with a phony-baloney one of my own.
“Really? Is the real estate market that hot?”
“Oh, yes,” she chirped. “I’ve never seen such a seller’s market.”
“How long have you been in the business?” I asked.
My question gave Pam an opportunity to launch into a litany of her personal triumphs.
“I’m the top-selling agent in Ardon. If I weren’t such a devoted wife and mother, I’d belong to Greenville’s Millionaire Club—agents who sell a million dollars’ worth of property a year. Maybe when I’m no longer stuck running my son to football practice and my daughter to cheerleading.”
She breezed on. “My little girl takes after me. I was a varsity cheerleader. Should have gotten a college scholarship. I was just as much an athlete as those girls who ran track.”
I might have forgiven Pam her recital of accomplishments as over-enthusiastic salesmanship, if she hadn’t added grievance caveats to each accolade.
“Wow, you were a cheerleader? Did you know Zack Strong, the pro quarterback who was attacked last night?”
Pam’s eyes narrowed for an instant, then she nodded and tried on a grave expression. “Actually Zack and I were high school sweethearts. If he’d been faithful when he went off to college, we’d be married. Some men seem incapable of appreciating a good woman’s love. I felt sorry for
Zack even before the attack. Even with all his money, he can’t be happy. Maybe this will be a wake-up call. Teach him what’s important.”
I looked at my watch. “Have to run. But thanks for the information.”
She looked up startled. “Do you want me to put in an offer?”
“Uh, no. But keep me posted if the asking price goes down. Way, way down.”
As I drove off, I mentally moved Pam pretty far down my potential suspects’ list. I hadn’t bothered to ask her how she’d spent last night. Whomping Zack upside the head did not seem her style. I sensed she was more into martyrdom than vengeance. Pam wanted everyone to acknowledge what an amazing, selfless woman she was.
She needed people to recognize how much farther she’d have gone in the world if others hadn’t wronged her and held her back.
My next stop was Ardon’s largest car dealership, Fred Baxter’s business. I’d driven past it many times. While the dealership sold four brands of new cars, Toyota wasn’t one of them, but Ford was. That’s the reason I’d driven my aunt’s Ford pickup, which came off the assembly line some years before automatic transmissions became the norm. I planned to coast into one of the service bays and ask the mechanic to check out the funny noise I kept hearing. The funny noise was no joke, though it only happened when I failed to properly engage the clutch.
The first part of my plan went smoothly. The next part was a little sketchy. I figured I’d stroll through the dealership while the mechanic poked under the truck’s hood. With any luck, I’d get a look at Fred Baxter, probably in one of those fake I-have-to-ask-my-boss meetings staged to con customers into believing the salesperson was sweating bullets to get them the best deal.
I entered the showroom and paused to look at a Ford Escape. I caught the salesman’s approach out of the corner of my eye.
“Can I help you? How about going for a test drive in this little honey?”
Close up, I realized the man was older than the typical salesman. Silver strands threaded their way through thick brown hair. A deep tan couldn’t hide the slight loosening of skin around his chin. He stuck out his hand.
“I’m Fred Baxter,” he said as we shook. I eased away a bit. His breath reeked of cigarette smoke. Had to be a three-pack-a-day habit.
“I own this dealership. Afraid all my sales associates are tied up just now. But I’d be glad to help. What’s your name? What kind of vehicle are you looking for?”
“I’m not in the market for a car right now,” I stammered. I wasn’t anxious to give my name or get into a lengthy conversation. “I brought a Ford pickup in for service. Just taking a look around while I wait.”
Fred frowned. “I don’t recall seeing you before. Did you buy your truck here?”
“Uh, no. It’s my aunt’s. I’m not sure where she bought it.”
He smiled. “Who’s your aunt?”
Uh oh. No choice.
“Eva Hooker,” I answered.
His smile disappeared. “Eva Hooker?”
He fastened his fist around my wrist. “You and your aunt hosted last night’s fundraiser for Carol Strong, didn’t you?” He kept his deep voice low, almost a whisper, but it scared me more than if he’d yelled.
I nodded. What else could I do?
He smiled. Not the kind of smile that made me think we’d ever be friends. More like the smile an exterminator might get when he saw a mouse heading for a trap.
“We’re not going to have a scene,” he added. “I’m going to call the service department and put a rush on whatever service is needed. And you’re going to sit in the customer lounge and keep your mouth closed until you’re called. And you will never come back. Do you understand?”
Alrighty. “Sorry I upset you.”
Rage—the icy kind—seemed to radiate from the man’s every fiber from his tasseled loafers to his silk tie.
“Oh, by the way, tell Eva I’m praying for Zack. Praying he’ll be a vegetable. Justice would be Carol changing her son’s diapers for the rest of her life.”
Jumping Pepper Jack. Didn’t need a second invitation to vamoose. I was darn sure I couldn’t coax Mr. Baxter into telling me how he’d spent the prior evening. Time to beat feet.
I sat quietly in the customer lounge until a bewildered mechanic hurried inside to tell me my pickup was ready. I paid the bill—fifty dollars for an unspecified checkup—without protest.
Despite Baxter’s frosty vitriol, the man didn’t seem like a prime prospect. While he appeared physically capable of attacking Zack, his ire seemed more focused on Carol. Puzzling. I’d have to quiz Eva on that subject.
Either Pam or Baxter could have hired someone to attack Zack. Yet that seemed even less likely than one of them doing the deed in person. Baxter might be able to afford a hitman, but that option seemed too impersonal for him. And, despite Pam’s brags on her sales prowess, I doubted she made enough moolah to squander money on righting a long-simmering wrong.
While I wasn’t ready to completely cross off Zack’s old enemies as possible attackers, I decided the CAVE men deserved more scrutiny. I’d discounted them earlier because the attack seemed over the top as retaliation for a knock-down punch.
But what did I know? The answer was bupkus. Not about Zack’s younger days in Ardon nor about his life beyond our county’s boundaries. Maybe someone in Las Vegas had a solid reason to hate Zack. A cuckolded husband who wanted to punish a football star who seduced his wife. A psycho who’d become obsessed with Zack.
Then there was the old standby, a profit motive. If Zack died, I wagered his will would leave everything to his mother, and clearly she wouldn’t harm her son. But there was also Doug, the Aces’ dethroned quarterback. He’d benefit, though he was Zack’s friend. I didn’t know enough about Vegas bookies, fantasy football fanatics, or celebrity deals to figure out if others might cash in if Zack disappeared from the football field—or the planet.
ELEVEN
At five p.m., I awakened a groggy Eva.
“Good grief, I can’t believe I slept away the afternoon,” she mumbled as she rubbed her eyes.
She shuffled to the bathroom and I headed to the kitchen. As I stirred my vegetable soup, I could hear her splashing water and muttering. Eva wandered out to our main living area wearing the paw-print flannel nightgown I gave her last Christmas. She still had a washcloth in hand as she poured herself coffee. She took a swallow and dumped the damp washcloth on the kitchen table to free a hand for the phone. Apparently the coffee cup was more important than a potential water mark on the table.
“Calling Carol?” I asked. She nodded.
I eavesdropped on Eva’s side of the conversation, which mostly amounted to questions…“Has Zack come out of his coma?…Are you at the hospital?…Have you been home?…Can I bring anything?”
When my aunt hung up, I peppered her with identical questions, anxious to hear Carol’s answers.
“Zack’s still in a coma in ICU. Since no one knows what miscreant attacked him, a sheriff’s deputy is guarding his room. The Sin City Aces also sent a security detail. That hasn’t thrilled Sheriff Mason, but the newcomers are accustomed to dealing with media and have stymied most, but not all, reporters trying to sneak up to the ICU floor.
“Allie Gerome is among the exceptions,” Eva continued. “That witch isn’t even a reporter. She’s a vulture. I spotted her lurking in the hallway this morning before I left. Hard to miss. She stuffs herself in too-tight clothes. Must think it makes her look trim. Ha. If the seams of her blouse ever rip, I want to be out of range of her exploding flab. Anyway I caught Allie glaring at Carol through the hospital room’s glass window. She looked smug, eager to swoop in for the kill. Venom seems to seep from her every pore.”
“Has Carol gone home at all?” I asked
Eva shook her head. “No, but the hospital staff has bent over backwards to make her comfortable. Let her use staff
facilities, and one of the nurses loaned her clean clothes.”
“How can we help?” I asked.
Eva sipped her coffee. “After supper, I’ll run by her house and pick up clothes and incidentals. Keep Carol company for a while. She insists she doesn’t want me to spend the night again.”
A barking chorus interrupted our chat. I looked out the window. “It’s Mollye. Just in time for supper, of course.”
In minutes, my friend joined us at the kitchen table. She slapped down a copy of the Ardon Chronicle. “That unscrupulous witch is using Zack’s attack to revive her old conspiracy theories.”
“What are you talking about?” Eva said.
Neither Eva nor I had seen the Saturday morning paper. My aunt refused to subscribe to the Ardon Chronicle, saying she wouldn’t give a penny of profit to its owner.
I scooted my chair next to Eva’s and read over her shoulder. A fairly straight-forward story reported Zack was attacked by an unknown assailant during a Halloween-themed campaign event.
The second “opinion” piece urged authorities to guard against Carol Strong hiding evidence of her son’s activities and possible motives for the attack. It cited unresolved questions about the mother’s possible obstruction of justice in another investigation involving Zack. The most egregious insinuation implied Zack might have been paid to shave points, which could mean criminal accomplices could be behind the attack.
“Good grief. How can the paper get away with this?” I asked.
Mollye and Eva shrugged.
“Will someone please tell me about Carol’s alleged ‘obstruction of justice’? Is that why Fred Baxter seems to be angrier at Carol than Zack?”
Eva narrowed her eyes. “Just how did you come to this conclusion about Fred?”
Uh, oh. I’d planned to tell Eva about my afternoon visits, but hoped to do it in more genteel, less interrogation-format style.
“I dropped by his dealership to see if the noise I periodically hear in your truck is anything to worry about,” I fibbed. “Fred Baxter introduced himself while I was wandering around the showroom. Once he learned I’d brought your truck in for service, he made it clear that I wasn’t welcome, and I made a speedy departure. Apparently any friend of Carol Strong’s is an enemy of Fred Baxter.”
