by Nene Adams
“You have to admit it looks bad—”
“You are so full of shit, James Austin Maynard, the septic tank’s jealous.”
He slapped the notebook closed. “If there’s anything, Kenzie, anything at all to the complaint Dearborn tried to make, you’d better tell me now because everything will come out. In a murder investigation, every connection to the victim has to be checked. Secrets have a way of coming to light no matter how deep they’re buried. Straight up: if I start inquiring about you, Kelly Collier and Jacob Dearborn, what will I find?”
Indignation drained out of Mackenzie. On the one hand, he was doing his job. On the other, he acted like she’d been caught red-handed doing something immoral or illegal.
“Straight up, Jimmy: I’m not sure what you’re thinking, nor do I think I want to know what’s rolling around in the gutter of your mind,” she said. “Are we done?”
“So be it.” Maynard stood. “I’ll give you some friendly advice, one relation to another: don’t come to the police station again to answer questions in a murder inquiry unless you have a lawyer with you. Had I known you wouldn’t have the sense God gave to a goose, I’d have told Birdwell to pass the word along.”
A lawyer? Mackenzie’s mouth dried.
He went on, “I can’t officially question you because we’re cousins. This interview’s a courtesy, so to speak, but I wanted to talk to you first. I’m trying to protect you.”
“I don’t need your protection.”
“Where were you last night between midnight and two a.m.?”
“With Veronica Birdwell, at her house, all night.” The words were more difficult to say than Mackenzie had anticipated, especially with Maynard glaring at her.
“Fine. Someone other than me will check out your story,” he said, looking more weary than surprised. “I know you like to be contrary for kicks, but if you’re lying now, I can’t help you. Last chance, Kenzie. Is that the truth?”
“Yes, it is. And fuck you very much.” As a parting shot, it came out too thin and strained to be satisfactory. Nevertheless, Mackenzie flounced from the interview room.
As she left the police station, she spotted Veronica, who gave her a significant look, raised one finger, pointed it down and made a stirring motion. Meet in one hour for coffee.
Mackenzie nodded tersely and continued out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Too agitated to go to the office or return home, and in desperate need of time to think, Mackenzie went across the street to Stubbs Park instead.
A mobile kiosk standing by the fountain sold coffee drinks, doughnuts and muffins. She ignored the lure of cappuccino to settle herself on the cement lip of the fountain, preferring to concentrate on her thoughts rather than her empty stomach.
First and foremost: was Veronica in trouble because of their relationship? Mackenzie doubted it. She and Veronica had done nothing wrong, nothing against the law.
Next question: who killed Jacob Dearborn? From what James Larkin had told her, the suspect list might contain more than a few names. Dearborn had hidden his past well, but not well enough to prevent a determined reporter from finding out the truth.
She reflected on what she’d learned from Larkin the previous day.
Dearborn’s real name was Samuel Jacob Dearborn Bledsoe, son of a petty thief and a drug-addicted prostitute from Atlanta. Dearborn had been born in 1957, the same year Annabel Coffin met and fell in love with Billy Wakefield.
Dearborn hadn’t always been a man of God. Bad choices had taken him from troubled youth to career criminal. In fact, he and Billy had met in prison in the eighties.
Under the name J.D. Bledsoe, Dearborn was convicted in ’81 as an accomplice in a jewelry store robbery—he’d driven the getaway car—while Billy was serving time for assault in the Fulton County Jail. They’d been cellmates for four years before Dearborn’s conviction was overturned on a technicality. Billy was released a few months later in the same year, 1985.
She regretted not having the information earlier that Dearborn and Billy had known each other. The pastor might have been able to shed light on Billy’s ultimate fate…if he hadn’t been so agitated about Kelly Collier, she thought ruefully.
A shadow fell across her face, startling her. Glancing up, she saw Veronica. The sight gave her a fluttery, excited feeling in her chest. A slight worry intruded. They’d agreed to meet in an hour. Had she been musing over Dearborn that long? No, the clock in the courthouse cupola showed just fifteen minutes had passed since she left the station. Getting to see Veronica early wasn’t a bad thing, but she wondered why.
“I’ve got the rest of the day off,” Veronica said, correctly interpreting her glance across the street. “Hey, Mac, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not go to Mighty Jo Young’s.” The breeze picked up, blowing loose strands of brunette hair that had escaped her messy bun.
“Why not? I mean, don’t you like their coffee?”
“I love the coffee there, but we need to talk in private.”
“My place it is.”
At the apartment, Veronica walked straight to the living room, removed her duty belt and sat on the sofa. “Could I have a glass of water, please?” she asked.
Mackenzie worried about Veronica’s apparent weariness, the bruised purple of her eyelids and the rigid set of her shoulders. She went to the kitchen, returning moments later with a glass of ice water.
“Thank you,” Veronica said, taking the glass. She drank deeply, her throat working.
Mackenzie waited in tense silence until she could stand no more. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m taking a few days off. It’s okay, Mac. I have a lot of vacation time and Detective Maynard reminded me I’ve got to use them before the end of the year.” Veronica drained the rest of the water and rolled the sweating glass over her forehead. “He’s in a tough spot.”
“Oh, Jimmy can go take a flying leap—”
“You don’t know,” Veronica interrupted, sitting up and speaking earnestly. “Detective Maynard wants to protect you. He doesn’t believe you had anything to do with Dearborn’s death, which is likely murder, by the way. The ME’s preliminary report suggests death was caused by asphyxiation due to a poison like cyanide or strychnine. He’s waiting for toxicology results while he completes the autopsy. Nobody believes Dearborn committed suicide, most of all his good friend, the mayor, who is applying a lot of pressure on Sheriff Newberry and the department to find the person responsible.”
Mackenzie recalled Mayor Mosley was a member of the Methodist congregation. “Who’d want to murder Dearborn?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Veronica shook her head. “Your cousin was under a lot of scrutiny with this case. If there was the slightest hint of misconduct or impropriety, he could have lost his job. But as of this afternoon, he’s off the investigation.”
“Who’s taking over?” Mackenzie asked.
“Detective Robert Davis, the other detective in the department. A fair man, a good investigator. Davis is verifying our alibis. Don’t look like that, Mac. It needs to be done. Detective Maynard and I are connected to the case by our relationships with you.”
“So you and Jimmy got the boot. I understand why, but I don’t like it.”
“Well, it was either that or spend the next couple of weeks patrolling the hollow in Stubbs Park,” Veronica said ruefully.
“What hollow?” Mackenzie asked, settling on the sofa next to Veronica, who still appeared overheated. She undid the top buttons of Veronica’s uniform shirt, hiding her amusement at the pink flush brightening the newly exposed skin.
Veronica swallowed. “There’s a spot in Stubbs Park called the Hollow,” she replied. The emphasis on the word made the capitalization evident. “It’s behind the bandstand where the landscaper miscalculated with the climbing trellis that supports the wisteria. There’s a space back there, small, but real private. You can’t be seen, you can’t be heard except from inside the bandstand. We sometimes ca
tch drug dealers there, but mostly it’s used for…well, I guess the nicest way to put it would be outdoor liaisons. When the weather’s warm, we have to send a deputy over to check the Hollow every hour or so. You’d be surprised.”
“That many nature lovers, huh?” Mackenzie grinned.
“You know how it is, Mac,” Veronica said, sudden mischief shining in her eyes. “Making love outdoors can be very nice.” Her voice dropped an octave. “Very nice actually, with all that fresh air and sunshine.”
“Quit that.” Mackenzie mimed a swat at her.
Veronica finished unbuttoning her uniform shirt, untucked it from her pants and whipped it off. Underneath, she wore a sleeveless white undershirt that showed off her smoothly muscled arms. “In fact, not long ago we had someone come into the station complaining about the sinners in the bush, as he put it. Sheriff Newberry wasn’t very happy. His grandchildren play in the park. We ran extra patrols that day, but didn’t catch them.”
Fascinated by the little divot where the wings of Veronica’s collarbone dipped—she knew from experience the skin there tasted extra salty and it was currently exposed by the undershirt’s low curved neckline—Mackenzie asked absently, “Who complained?”
“Rev. Wyland.” Veronica sighed. “He kept quoting a Bible passage, something about cords and sin. I didn’t quite take his meaning.”
Mackenzie wasn’t paying that much attention. She leaned forward to press a kiss right above the shirt’s neckline, on the little crease that marked the beginning of Veronica’s cleavage. In last night’s mutual haste and hunger, she regretted not taking even more time to truly appreciate every glorious inch of her lover’s body. She thought Veronica had been satisfied with her, too, despite her thinness, lack of hips and her almost nonexistent breasts—what Grandma Maynard had meanly called “two fried eggs on a plank.”
She thrust aside all thoughts of grandmothers and bent her head to continue scattering kisses over the base of Veronica’s throat. Her increasingly lustful thoughts evaporated in a flash when what Veronica said penetrated her brain.
She raised her head. “What did you say?”
“Wyland complained about discovering a couple having sex in the Hollow,” Veronica replied, each word pronounced with the prim precision that meant she was annoyed.
Mackenzie spared a thought to wonder why and felt her face grow hot. “Sorry,” she murmured. “Want me to…” She made a vague gesture in the air.
Veronica chuckled. “No, Mac, you’re distracted. Maybe later.”
“Sorry,” Mackenzie repeated, sitting up and taking off the white shirt she wore over her tank top. “Didn’t mean to break the mood. Say, what was Wyland doing inside the bandstand anyway? He must’ve been in there if he saw or heard this fun-loving couple.”
“Do you remember the afternoon right before our date at Swine Dining?”
“I remember that date, all right. You were as nervous as a bag of chips on Super Bowl Sunday. You got drunk, Ronnie. Drunk! On a couple of beers,” she teased,
“It was Snakehead Ale and please don’t remind me,” Veronica said, her voice squeaky with embarrassment. She coughed. “Moving on, okay?”
Mackenzie nodded, keeping a straight face despite the smile twitching the corners of her mouth. “Go for it.”
“Rev. Wyland has a habit of preaching in Stubbs Park, which is fine, a perfectly legal use of a traditional public forum,” Veronica said, “Problem is, Wyland wants to exercise his freedom of speech from the bandstand, which is privately owned by the City of Antioch and requires a permit to use. He has no permit. We keep rousting him out, but he’s stubborn. When he came into the station to report seeing the couple breaking the decency laws that day, I thought I’d talk to him, try to make him see sense. I think it worked since he hasn’t been back to the park since—”
“Oh, my God,” Mackenzie muttered, interrupting the rest of Veronica’s narrative.
She knew what Kelly Collier and Jacob Dearborn had been doing in the park.
Chapter Thirty
Rather than risk another confrontation with Kelly at the school, Mackenzie called her, hanging up when the call went to voice mail.
“What’s up, Mac?” Veronica asked. She had followed Mackenzie to the kitchen and settled at the table. “You look like a cat at a mouse hole who heard a squeak.”
Mackenzie put down the phone on the counter and opened the refrigerator door. “Did I tell you why Dearborn accused me of harassing Kelly Collier, Ronnie?” she asked, taking out a jar of homemade ginger syrup and a lime.
“Not exactly,” Veronica answered, leaning back in the chair. “Although if this has to do with the Dearborn case, Mac, you’d be better off talking to Detective Davis.”
“When pigs have propellers, maybe. I’m involved enough as it is.” Mackenzie spent a moment adding ice cubes to the glasses. Taking a knife from the drawer, she cut the lime into quarters and squeezed juice over the ice. “The same day you were talking to Rev. Wyland on the police station steps, Kelly called to ask for an emergency meeting at Sampson’s Diner. She told me she and Dearborn had been in Stubbs Park discussing the wedding when Wyland confronted them, demanding that Dearborn resign as pastor of United Methodist Church.”
Victoria’s indrawn breath made her smile tightly.
She drizzled a spoonful of ginger syrup into each glass. “Kelly wanted me to make Wyland leave Dearborn alone. I agreed because her father owns my office building and it didn’t seem like a big deal. She wouldn’t tell me what happened, though. Now I know why.”
“Mac, are you sure?” Veronica asked, her eyes wide.
“I don’t need proof,” Mackenzie said. “Proof is for a court of law. What I’ve got is a damn good theory.” She cracked open a bottle of sparkling water and filled each glass to the brim while gently stirring with a spoon in her other hand. “If I’m right—”
“If you’re right. That’s the problem, Mac. Why would Kelly have an affair with Dearborn? She’s young, attractive and engaged to his son.”
“Offhand, I have no idea.” A few memories surfaced, things seen and half forgotten. “No, wait. Kelly drives a new Corvette Stingray convertible. I saw it at the diner when we met the first time and again at the high school. I’m pretty sure her father can’t afford a fifty-thousand-dollar price tag on his preacher’s salary.”
“Doesn’t Mr. Collier own real estate around town?”
“My office building, a couple of others. I can tell you from the rent I pay the man, he’s not getting rich. Hell, he doesn’t even own the house he lives in,” she recalled. “That belongs to the church. Can you find out who put up the money for the ’Vette?”
Veronica accepted the glass she offered. “I suppose so. Let me make a call.”
While Veronica talked on her cell phone, Mackenzie took a long swallow from her glass, letting the slightly sweet, slightly spicy, delicious and tooth-achingly cold water slide down her throat. Her mind worked over the puzzle she faced, tracing paths of possibilities, dredging up facts, gathering hazy recollections.
Fifteen minutes and two calls later, Veronica put down her phone. “There’s only one Corvette Stingray registered in Antioch. The vehicle belongs to Kelly Collier. It was purchased by Jacob Dearborn at the luxury car dealership in Laxahatchee City.”
“That’s interesting, considering Little Jack told me Dearborn was drowning in debt.” She told Veronica about Sweetwater Hill and the development project. “Now why would Dearborn, in the middle of a deal that’s going to make him stinking rich or ruin him completely, buy such an expensive car for a pretty blond cheerleader?”
“Because his son asked him to? I don’t know, Mac. What are you thinking?”
“When I saw Kelly at the school, she was wearing a diamond tennis bracelet.”
“Maybe a gift from her fiancé?”
“Maybe. We ought to hear what Dearborn’s son has to say.”
“That’s a matter for the investigating officer.” Veronica swallowed
the last gulp of water from her glass. “Although I guess it can’t hurt to speculate.”
“Maybe Kelly killed Dearborn herself,” Mackenzie pointed out. “What if she was about to lose her sugar daddy?”
“I still can’t believe Kelly Collier was having an affair with Mr. Dearborn. I’m sure there’s a less lurid explanation, Mac.”
Mackenzie persisted. “What if Dearborn Sr. regretted their relationship, wanted to break it off with Kelly? Or he was afraid of exposure? That might explain why he tried to come after me with that bogus charge.”
“All right, I’ll play along. If Kelly didn’t tell him she was contacting you, he would have wanted to make sure you couldn’t go after him. The best defense is a good offense,” Veronica said, rattling the ice cubes left in her glass. “He tried to discredit you.”
“He didn’t succeed.” Mackenzie paused. Something she’d said earlier poked at her. She went back over the conversation. The light flickered and finally dawned. “Okay, bear with me…you and Rev. Wyland on the police station steps.”
“He’d been preaching in the park’s bandstand again, which isn’t allowed.”
“He quoted from the Bible right before he left. Do you remember what he told you?”
“Something about sin.”
“Cords of sin. I’ve heard that quote before. Hang on.”
Momentarily leaving the kitchen, Mackenzie found her copy of the King James Bible—a childhood Christmas gift from her Uncle Dillard, her mother’s other brother—on a bookshelf in the living room and returned to Veronica.
She leafed through the thin, onionskin pages, thinking she’d never believed her mother’s insistence that she attend Sunday service would come in handy. When she found the passage she wanted, she handed the Bible to Veronica, her finger on the page to mark the verse. “It didn’t really register with me at the time, but I think this is what Rev. Wyland was trying to tell you.”
