Really, Truly Dead

by Maggie Toussaint

  The old me would’ve said, sure. The new me sent my sympathy to Bob and asked, “What’s in it for me?”

  “I can’t pay overtime, but I won’t bill your time as leave until you turn in Bob’s piece. You’ll still have two weeks of leave if you need them. I think that’s overly generous on my part.”

  It was surprisingly generous. “Deal. I’ll watch for the package.”

  A few pleasantries later, I ended the call. Just when I thought I was caught up, more work came my way. But at least I had made headway. Ted had recognized my worth to him and my obligations to my family. Speaking of family, I needed to touch bases with my father.

  It was half past ten. He should be awake by now. His head should be clear. My to-do list could wait an hour. I wouldn’t mind working late if Daddy was on the right track.

  I strode briskly into the reception area with Bailey at my heels. “I need to go and talk with my father. Everything okay here?”

  “Peachy, boss.” My coworker grinned. “Ten new subscriptions today. You’re amazing.”

  Heat scorched my cheeks. “Thanks, but I’m a short-term fix. How’s that archive search for past crimes coming along?”

  Ellen grimaced. “It would be easy if everything was computerized. Searching old records manually is the pits.”

  “Yes, but this retrospective will sell papers.”

  “How do you know?”

  I shrugged. “I just know. People are interested in the past.”

  “I’m interested in paying bills. I’m headed to the Thrift Shop at lunchtime to look for kid shoes.”

  And I thought I had problems! Poor Ellen had larger issues than a father on the skids.

  There was no traffic on River Road, but the oak canopy provided nice shade. At home, I dropped my purse on the hutch in the foyer. “Daddy?” The house was silent. I knocked on his bedroom door, called him again, and peeked in.

  He was still in bed. “Wake up.”

  His eyes opened slowly. “Lindsey.”

  At least he knew my name. “Get dressed. I’ll make coffee.”

  “Sleepy.” He nestled deeper into his pillow.

  I pulled down the covers. “We need to talk.”

  “No talking.”

  “Get up. You missed breakfast. You’re missing life.”

  He stared at me dully. “Why don’t you leave? Everyone leaves. Why should today be any different?”

  His words stung. “I’m here now.”

  I found his robe, put it on him, and gave him coffee in the kitchen. Daddy shielded his eyes against the bright sunlight streaming in through the windows.

  “I’m worried about you.” I started his breakfast. “Aunt Fay and Uncle Henry are worried about you. You’re making bad choices.”

  “A man’s life is his own to do with as he sees fit.”

  “You could’ve hurt someone the other night.”

  “I didn’t hurt anyone.”

  Sirens wailed in the distance. Had the sheriff’s son discovered another dead animal? “Make me understand. I want to help.”

  “I’m tired. I drink so I can sleep. When I don’t drink, I can’t sleep.”

  I held his gaze. “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “I’m not sick.”

  The sirens were much louder now. Bailey’s ears cocked to listen.

  “There’s all kinds of sick.”

  Daddy slapped his palm on the table. “I’m not seeing a shrink. Just because I’m a McKay doesn’t mean I’m crazy.”

  Good old Beulah. We had her to thank for our crazy McKay label. “You need help.”

  “I’m fine.”

  The sirens were too loud to speak over. Bailey howled until the sirens stopped outside. Ears ringing, heart pounding, I opened the door. Sheriff Ike Harper and three deputies stood on the front porch.

  “Step aside, Lindsey,” Ike said.

  His aura of violence electrified the air and iced my thoughts. “What’s going on?”

  A deputy flashed a paper at me. “Arrest warrant for George McKay.”

  The sheriff breezed inside and walked over to Daddy. “Mr. McKay, you’re under arrest.”

  As the sheriff Mirandized my father, I fought back tears. Did Ike see a loving father? Or did he see an angry old man?

  “What’s the charge?” I asked.

  “The murder of Judge Sterling,” the deputy said.

  Murder? The ringing in my ears intensified. After allowing my father to dress, the deputies led him out to a squad car.

  “You’ve made a mistake,” I told Ike. “Daddy didn’t kill anyone.”

  The sheriff smoothed a stray hair from my brow. “The evidence says otherwise. Your father’s fingerprints are on the murder weapon.”

  “You’ve got the wrong man. He was in your jail when it happened.”

  “George didn’t wreck his car until one. The judge died two hours prior. George had means, motive, and opportunity.”

  “I don’t believe you.” My insides felt squishy.

  The hard glint in his eyes softened. “Should I call your aunt to come over?”

  I didn’t want sympathy. “No. My father’s innocent. I’m calling Billy Mertz, and we’re getting Daddy out on bail.”

  “These things take time, and we’ve got the right man. Between those fingerprints, the scathing editorials your father ran, the shouting match they had last week at Shorty’s, and the public threat to kill the judge at the County Commissioners meeting, George McKay is the only suspect.”

  A public threat? Okay, maybe those editorials were stronger than they should’ve been. But murder? My entire world was unraveling. “What about Judge Sterling’s court cases? What about his personal life? Did you look into that?”

  Ike shook his head. “George has been our prime suspect all along.”

  “What about known felons?” My collar felt too tight. “What about, um, that druggie guy, Jerome Stewart? Maybe he killed the judge for his watch.”

  “Jerome’s dope dealing days are long over. He’s a drug rehab counselor over in Brunswick. He was never a suspect. Take a deep breath.”

  “Have you questioned Daddy?”

  “I interviewed him the day after the murder, same as I talked to everyone else. Based on the time of death, your father is the only suspect who doesn’t have a solid alibi.”

  Why had Ike and Daddy kept that questioning secret until now? “My father isn’t a murderer. And he doesn’t have the missing Rolex.”

  “Someone else could have stolen the watch after the judge was killed. We may never find it. Your father’s changed, Lindsey. He’s not the man he used to be.”

  The sheriff’s parting words hit a nerve. Hadn’t I been fussing at Daddy about his bad choices? A whisper of doubt lodged in my thoughts.

  Chapter 5

  The lawyer assured us he’d work on getting Daddy out of jail. After our visit with the attorney, I suggested we hold a strategy session, so we gathered at Aunt Fay’s for lunch.

  “This is ridiculous.” Aunt Fay tore iceberg lettuce into huge chunks. “A McKay arrested for murder.”

  Uncle Henry eased his bulk into the chair. “The charges against George are serious. We’ll get him released on bail, but we should nose around.”

  “Why don’t we hire a detective?” I asked.

  “No one talks to outsiders,” Aunt Fay said, handing tea all around. “Henry can make inquiries at the bank and with his friends. I’ll shake the grapevine at the Post Office, the bridge club, and the DAR. You and Janey can poke around in the judge’s personal life. We’ll compare notes.”

  My gut hurt as Judge Sterling’s corpse surfaced in my thoughts. I’d never forget that blood-soaked shirt. And whoever killed him was still walking around Danville.

  “He married Trish, and they raised three kids who grew up and moved away,” I said. “Besides his professional career, what else is there to know about Judge Alan Sterling?”

  Aunt Fay and Uncle Henry exchanged glances.

  “Wha
t?” I asked.

  Uncle Henry stared into his tea. “Alan led a double life. For starters, he owns The Oaks Motel.”

  I shrugged. “So?”

  “So,” Aunt Fay pushed her eyeglasses up her nose. “Alan got around. His car is often at the motel. Angie Johnson—she’s the manager there—and Trish can’t stand each other.”

  I blinked, too stunned to move more than my eyelids. “The judge and Angie were involved?”

  “And then some.” Uncle Henry tugged at his necktie. “Some say her youngest is Alan’s son.”

  Nothing seemed quite right. I fingered the ridges of my glass. “I thought roses were his passion, not Angie. Did he give you roses, Aunt Fay?”

  Aunt Fay turned tomato red. “Yes, but the man gave away hundreds of his Inverness Pinks.”

  “I always thought Alan was odd,” Uncle Henry said. “Rubbing roses on women’s cheeks is peculiar. The way he’d corner them and insist on stroking their faces with his flowers.”

  I blinked at Uncle Henry’s strong tone. “Was he a pervert?”

  “There are degrees of perversion.” Uncle Henry shook his head. “I prefer to think the judge was merely too friendly with the fairer sex.”

  “He talked to us ladies about gardening. Can’t blame us for humoring him.” Aunt Fay dealt out salad bowls and sandwich plates with card-shark ease.

  “Hold the bus,” Cousin Janey said. “What about his court associates? Did the sheriff look at those?”

  Aunt Fay beamed. “That’s the spirit. Go to the courthouse and root around. His clerk knows everything.”

  “Dixie Lou? She can talk for hours.” Janey’s face fell. “Who’s gonna rescue me?”

  ~*~

  After lunch, I returned to the Gazette. Ellen rushed out to meet me in the parking lot. “Is it true? They arrested George?”

  “Yes.”

  Ellen clutched her hands to her chest. “Oh, my! Why?”

  I outlined the circumstantial case as I strode to my office. “Plus Daddy has no alibi for the time of death.”

  Her mouth gaped. “What does George say?”

  “Daddy says he’s innocent, and I believe him. Our attorney, Billy Mertz, is handling bail. After that, it’s a waiting game until the trial.”

  “How awful. What will you do?”

  “Find out who killed the judge. Tell me about Angie Johnson.”

  “You know about the judge and Angie?” Ellen asked.

  I sighed and sat. “I didn’t know anything until thirty minutes ago. Being in Atlanta has put me out of the gossip loop. Tell me about them.”

  She went very still. “The judge has been seeing Angie forever, maybe even before he was married.”

  Angie had managed The Oaks Motel my entire life. Two of her children were older than me. Her youngest was my age. “What about Boony?”

  Ellen shrugged. “Boony is the elementary school custodian. Zero ambition and no personality. People whisper he’s the judge’s son, but he’s nothing like Alan.”

  I’d question Angie first and see if she had motive to kill the judge, and then I might talk to her kids. “The idea of secret children and double lives has me spooked. Is anyone in Danville who they claim to be?”

  “Probably not.”

  Chapter 6

  A faded sign marked the entrance to The Oaks Motel. The deserted parking lot hinted at vacant units. “Business looks bad,” I observed.

  Cousin Janey snickered. “Business is booming. Come back tonight, and you’ll see plenty of vehicles here. This place is the Love Shack Motel.”

  “People come here to hook up?”

  “Yep.”

  Good grief. “I had no idea. I feel like I’ve had blinders on my whole life. I always thought this was a sleepy little town.”

  “Don’t feel bad. I didn’t figure it out until three years ago when I caught my ex here.” Janey jingled her keys in my face. “Move it or Angie will call Junior Curtis to bust our chops.”

  I opened my door. “The bail bondsman? Why?”

  Janey locked her VW bug and nodded. “He’s also her bouncer. The rule is: no pay, no play.”

  “Jeez.”

  Janey bustled in the motel lobby. “Angie?”

  Dark paneling wrapped the reception counter that dominated the tight quarters. Tourism brochures littered the countertop. Country music blared. A petite bleached blonde in a flowery top looked up from a collection of paint strips she was studying. “Janey Dupree. What brings you here?”

  “Family. Angie, you remember my cousin Lindsey?”

  Angie focused on my red hair. “You were in Boony’s class. Aren’t you in Macon now?”

  Her strained welcome piqued my curiosity. “Atlanta. I write for the Georgia Journal of Science.”

  “Lindsey’s helping at the paper right now,” Janey continued with the cover story we’d worked out. “She wants to interview local businesses for their take on the economy, and I suggested you.”

  Angie shuffled the paint strips together. “The economy is good. Real good.”

  She had yet to look me in the eye. I pulled out a reporter’s pad and a pen. “Wonderful. Please, continue. I’d love to have quotes for the article.”

  “We’ve always turned a profit. Recently, I began renting by the month. Two units have efficiency kitchens, and I’m adding more kitchens.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “If I turn this place into apartments, I’ll have more time with my kids and grands.”

  “Looks like you’re already in fix-up mode,” Janey observed.

  “Considering the possibilities.”

  I pressed on to fill the awkward silence. “Would you say Danville is a good place to raise a family?”

  Angie made a strangling sound. Uh-oh. I hastened to explain. “Because of the low crime rate, low student-to-teacher ratios, fresh seafood, that sort of thing.”

  “You want my opinion about this community?”

  Her shrill voice made me squirm. “Whatever you want to tell me.”

  “This community is full of backstabbing, lying, no-good cheaters, and I’m sorry I ever landed here.” Her eyes bore into mine. “I’m doubling my rates, effective immediately. They want to play house out here, they can pay for the privilege. Put that in your newspaper and smoke it.”

  Janey’s jaw flapped mutely.

  I grabbed my cousin and eased toward the exit. “Thanks for your time. We’ll be on our way.”

  Janey raced me to the car. A few miles down the road, she pulled in the trailer park.

  “Look.” She held out her trembling hand. “Holy cow, Cuz. I bet Angie killed Judge Sterling. She’s mad at the whole town. Think of the dirt she knows. Think of the affairs she’s seen.”

  Janey was right. Angie knew secrets, but adultery was good for her business. “Angie talked like the motel was hers.”

  “No way. Back in my waitress days, the judge barely tipped. I’m guessing he only paid Angie minimal wages.”

  I shook my head. “Following your logic, she’s mad about thirty years of low pay? And she’s taking it out on the community? I don’t think so.”

  Janey fingered the ridges on her steering wheel. “Well, one of the Sterlings must own this place. Otherwise how’d that gossip get started? If it’s Trish, can you see her employing the judge’s mistress? I can’t. So who owns the hotel? And why would Angie be renovating if she’s not the owner?”

  “We need answers to those questions.”

  Janey shuddered. “The deed room in the courthouse is a mess. It could take years to figure this out.”

  “We don’t have years.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Daddy needs our help now.”

  “Let’s see if Uncle George’s bail bond went through.” Janey headed the car into town.

  “Are you coming in with me?” I asked my cousin.

  “Nope. Junior Curtis played with guns as a kid. He has this way of looking straight through you, and he’s got a mean streak. Plus, he gets Florida visitors in
black limos with tinted windows. Rumor is he’s connected.”

  “Connected?” I had that dumb-as-a-rock feeling again. “He’s related to us?”

  “It’s a family all right, only not ours. You cross Junior, and you cross the people he represents, you catch my drift?”

  Had the script of my life been hacked? What happened to my hometown? “You’re telling me that Junior’s got mob ties, he’s Angie’s friend, and she hates us.”

  “Good recap.”

  “You think Angie or Curtis did it?”

  “Anyone could’ve done it, including Uncle George. Imagine the judge cheating on Trish for so long. My husband cheated on me once, and I kicked him out. I wouldn’t stand for that. Trish has the most motive.”

  The spurned wife angle. Worked for me. “I should interview Trish Sterling next.”

  “Yeah. She’s due.”

  Janey stopped in front of the bail bond office. The bottom two-thirds of Junior’s windows were blocked so I couldn’t see inside. No black limos on the street. The coast was clear. Janey kept the motor running.

  “Should I wait for you?” she asked.

  We were across the street from the jail, two blocks from the Gazette. “I’ll be fine.”

  The bail bond office looked ordinary enough. A metal desk, wooden chairs, a computer, a phone, and a filing cabinet occupied the room. Plants lined the walls and filled the window. It smelled like a greenhouse, hot and humid and earthy.

  Junior Curtis rose and extended his hand towards me. “Ms. McKay.”

  His handshake was firm and business-like. Junior wore dark green slacks, black boots, and a khaki shirt with rolled sleeves. His head was shaved, and his biceps bulged. Sunglasses peeked out of his shirt pocket.

  “You know me?”

  A half-smile crossed his lips. “Sooner or later everyone walks through my door.”

  I sat in the seat he indicated. “I’m here about Daddy’s bond.”

  Junior raised his hands skyward. “Out of my hands. George insisted that Henry sell some of George’s investments to cover the bond. He’ll be out once the money transfers. I check the account hourly. Where’s your dog, Red?”

  My brother used to call me Red. This guy had no right. “My name is Lindsey, and my dog’s at home today.”