Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles)

by Paisley Ray

  The Coleman cooler Billy Ray and Stewart had brought rested under the pool table. He reached for a can. “Need a drink?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  He pulled the tab top off and pushed it inside the beer. “I paint when I can.”

  “Just miniature landscapes?”

  His eyes twinkled. “I can paint anything.”

  “Anything?”

  “Why you so curious?”

  “I want to open my own gallery someday. Maybe I can feature your art.”

  Billy Ray’s pie eyes opened. “Darlin’, I have enough art to fill a gallery.”

  “Really? Where do you paint?”

  “I work out of a barn.”

  “O’Brien,” Mitch said, “you’re up.”

  The balls had broken into a decent scatter, giving me options. We were solids. I sunk the one, five and six.

  “God damn,” Billy Ray shouted. “You’re a shark.” Encouraging him to sing like a canary was proving tougher than I thought. Somehow, I needed to loosen his vocal cords. Stalling, I missed the solid red seven.

  Stewart’s stature dwarfed Macy. He leaned against a corner wall wearing faded-jeans with an unbuttoned oxford over a T-shirt and a pair of leather loafers. The shoes looked Italian. Expensive. Macy knew I suspected he played a part in moving the paintings. I trusted her to be discrete, and hoped she didn’t reveal my suspicions.

  On the corner sofa, Katie Lee hunched her upper body and dropped her head into her hands. She stood and left the boathouse. Nash hung back a few beats, then followed. Nash had kept his word.

  Mitch knocked a striped purple twelve into a side pocket. “Y’all took a while to get over here. Did you pre-party?”

  Patsy high-fived Mitch for sinking a ball then looked over her shoulder when she heard Nash slam the door.

  “We picked up Nash and drinks at the Marina Supply Store,” I said.

  Billy Ray jingled keys inside his pocket. “We were over at Jackson’s. Must’ve just missed y’all.”

  Patsy leaned against a corner. “Where is Jackson?”

  Billy Ray pressed two fingers to his lips and sucked wind. “Went back to fetch his pipe.”

  A panic, like when you have a pop quiz you’re completely unprepared for, jolted my nerve endings. I hoped Storm had gotten the search warrant and finished up. If the FBI lingered, Jackson would see them and bolt.

  An oversize Roman numeral clock ticked above the river stone fireplace. We’d been at the McGee’s for nearly an hour, and I hadn’t started my search. I needed to find that painting.

  Handing Billy Ray my pool cue, I told a teeny, tiny lie. “I left my purse at the main house. Will you cover for me?”

  NOTE TO SELF

  Billy Ray hides an aura of creep under sunny clothing.

  42

  Run Like You Stole Something

  The McGee’s home hid on a clearing between two large plots of wooded land. Cicadas hummed from the trees, and a crisp draft blew in from the river. Outside the main house, a beach ball drifted above the pool, and I heard shouts and water play. Before I moved inside, I listened for Katie Lee and Nash. I figured I’d find them when I finished my search.

  There wasn’t anyone I recognized in the kitchen. Since I’d already seen it, I moved on. I guessed a pricy Clementine Hunter would give dinner guests plenty of conversation and went looking for the dining room. Silk-ballooned drapes with beaded trim flanked floor to ceiling windows. Turning on lights would’ve drawn attention. Sparingly I swept my travel flashlight across the walls. A family portrait reflected from a brushed-gold decorative mirror above a sideboard, and a cluster of inked flower botanicals hung over the matte and shine wide stripe painted walls. I heard the jingle of car keys beyond the arched doorway. Switching the flashlight off, I hovered in a corner and froze. I was freaking myself out. The dining room was a bust.

  The front foyer was a McGee time-capsule with a decade of family vacation photo-ops.

  “Hey Raz,” Meredith said, from behind. “Where is everyone?”

  “Mostly in the boathouse.” I pointed to an adjourning office wall with a series of bird-dog charcoal sketches. “The artwork in your home is amazing.”

  “My mama doesn’t like empty walls.”

  “Which is her favorite?”

  “Hard to tell. She buys it like shoes.” Meredith wrapped an arm around my neck. “I was looking for Katie Lee.” Lowering her voice to a talk-whisper, she craned her head to see who was around. “You know she’s forbidden to see Nash. He’s not quality. He’ll never amount to anything.”

  Alcohol had uncensored Meredith’s tongue, although I guessed she’d say the same things about Nash if she were sober.

  I needed an excuse to keep searching and glanced up the stairs.

  “You don’t think she and Nash are up there?”

  Shouting erupted over music that blared in the family room and someone called for Meredith. “Why don’t I check? If I find Katie Lee, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.”

  “You’re a dear,” she said and disappeared around the corner. I jogged up the staircase.

  Car doors slammed and from the picture window above the front door I saw more of New Bern arrive. I decided to start at the far end of the second floor and work my way backwards. In the master bedroom, two carved Italian marble-top bedside tables flanked a mahogany four-poster bed with a silk-canopy. A desk with French legs and a chaise lounge softened the room. Mrs. McGee had dressed her bedroom with needlepoint pillows of mangoes and pineapples. A series of tropical watercolors: A Cuban Palm, a Bismark Palm, and a Date Palm, anchored a sitting area with a two-seater sofa, cushioned rattan armchairs and a TV console.

  My chest heaved as though my heart wanted to escape. What if Mrs. McGee bought the painting for a client or had it stored? Hell they probably owned a vacation home or two. I couldn’t clear Dad’s name until I found the Clementine. I needed to calm down and focus. I opened the balcony door for oxygen, and listened to the party noise below drown the night. The pool was empty now, except for a beach ball. The lion fountains spouted water that spun the ball in a whirlpool it couldn’t escape. I heard a door latch and slipped behind the open balcony door. My eye moved down the slope where the boathouse rested. The cloudy night had broken, and streaks of the moon now glistened on the surface of the glassy black Trent. I guessed that Katie Lee and Nash’s relationship floated by a frayed thread. The relief I expected to feel with him out of her life didn’t surface. I’d become accustomed to his screwups.

  Pushing my paranoia aside, I devised a plan. If I hustled, I figured I could scour the entire house in fifteen minutes. Meredith didn’t lie. Mrs. McGee hoarded shoes. A noisy trickle of water drew me into the master bath. I eyed the faucet and ran a hand in the porcelain sink.. It was dry. Thumbing the eye of Horus I moved toward the water closet and gasped. The Baptism rested in a chunky wooden frame of elder wood on a wall above the bidet.

  So we meet again. Turning the lights on high I emptied my pockets onto the vanity. My pockets were filled to capacity. I removed gloves, lip-gloss, the used Fuji camera, a pack of gum, and at the bottom of the crumpled bag, the underwater camera. My mind surged as if I’d swallowed an entire box of dry powder, cherry, Jell-O. Steadying my hand, I snapped four pictures of the painting and tucked the underwater camera inside my jacket pocket.

  Was this the painting Dad had refurbished or was it an original Billy Ray? Centering myself, I picked up the magnifying glass and took a deep breath. Closing my eyes, I retrieved an image of the painting in Dad’s shop. The colors, the scale, the monogram signature.

  “Funny place to find your purse.”

  My neck muscles stiffened, shifting my senses into a hypersensitive mode. In the tight space, stale beer breath permeated my nostrils.

  Turning my head, I stared into cavernous black eyes rimmed in red. “Billy Ray.”

  He took the magnifying glass from my hand and used it to poke the items I’d scattered around the sink. “Dispo
sable camera. Ain’t that curious. What pictures have you been taking?”

  “You know, making memories.”

  Picking up the camera, he moved toward me. I stepped back. The master bath had one exit and Billy Ray blocked it. The McCoys and Macy were in the boathouse and Katie Lee and Nash had disappeared. The bedroom wing hung in a corner of the house, far removed from the party downstairs. Dread dripped down my throat. If I screamed my lungs out, no one would hear.

  Billy Ray touched the end of the camera to my chest cavity, and dragged it down stopping at the bottom band of my bra. “I’m going to help you make a memory.”

  I hiccupped. “Quit goofing around and give a girl some privacy.”

  Snapping the camera in two, he threw it at me. His voice came from a dark place. His throaty growl made think he was possessed. “You fucking bitch,” he said and gripped my neck with his sausage fingers. A towel rack pressed a welt into my back. “You’ve been snoopin’ around Jackson’s and now the McGee’s. You think your shit don’t stink.”

  My rebuttal was a hiccup.

  He squeezed tighter. “I saw you and Patsy at the back of the Marina.”

  The hiccups and his grip constricted my ability to gather oxygen. He pressed his girth into mine, and I squirmed trying to push his bulk off me. My stomach turned when I realized I felt his bulge pressing against me. Billy Ray worked himself into a fury. Keeping his vice-like grip on me, he lowered his voice and whispered into my ear, “You think I’m so sweet on you that I wouldn’t notice all your questions? It’s because of you that this is my last night in town, and I’m gonna enjoy it.”

  He’d squeezed my neck tight sending my brains on a journey toward my ears, like a snail in need of a new shell. The toxic combination of his sickly-sweet aftershave and alcohol-laden breath made my eyes roll backward. I guessed I was blacking-out when I felt the rancid rasp of his tongue drag across my face. I thought I heard a southern man’s voice say, “That’s enough, Billy Ray.”

  He let go and I gasped, rubbing the welts on my neck.

  Billy Ray spun to face the door. “Mitch, get the fuck outta here.”

  God it was good to see Mitch McCoy.

  This wasn’t part of my plan. I’d underestimated Billy Ray. I never thought him capable of violence. He’d crossed the line, and I wanted to crush him like a grape in a vat. In a swift maneuver, I jammed my heel onto his yellow leather docksiders and ground his toes with downward pressure. “Fucker.”

  He hollered a loud grunt then lunged for me. I jumped backward into the tub putting a small elevation of cast iron between us. Billy Ray tripped on the throw rug, thumping forward, and Mitch tackled him from behind, grappling to lock his flailing arms.

  Outside the picture window, I heard a low rumbling. The McGee’s property wasn’t visible from the main road and their driveway wound through the wooded lot next door. A procession of headlights wound past trees toward the house. Storm had secured a warrant.

  What advantage Mitch had in height, Billy Ray had in girth. Muscling out of Mitch’s grip, Billy Ray rose onto one knee, and Mitch jumped in front. Billy Ray bolted up and slung a punch into Mitch’s gut, folding him in half, and followed with an uppercut into Mitch’s face. I searched for something to help. Soap on a rope, bubble bath, a ladies razor, worthless. Billy Ray stood, pulling Mitch by the back of his collar. I couldn’t wait for Storm.

  With Billy Ray’s back to me, I tugged the gold towel bar out of its brackets and stabbed him on the ear. My shot hit bull’s-eye and he parachuted, flailing his arms for something to break his fall. Inadvertently he ripped a water handle off the back of the bidet, creating a vertical fountain of water. Droplets splashed the Clementine Hunter before falling onto his dazed head that rested in the porcelain pot.

  Mitch pulled at my waist. “Give me your belt.”

  “I owe ya but --”

  “Keep your pants on. I need to hog tie him until we get help.”

  Baffled, I handed Mitch my double-wrap paisley belt.

  Billy Ray moaned as he slumped to the floor. He’d cut his face when he hit the bidet, and his bloody ear resembled a beloved rawhide bone. Mitch tied his wrists behind his back with my belt. I didn’t feel any remorse. It was self-defense, and I had a witness.

  “He can still walk away.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  I hiccupped. “Take his pants.”

  “Raz, that’s warped.”

  “It’s a precaution.”

  Mitch slid off Billy Ray’s shoes and winced.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said and tugged at the banana yellow pant cuffs.

  “We need to get out of here, fast.”

  “Billy Ray’s not stupid enough to chase us.”

  “You don’t understand. The FBI is seconds away from busting this party.”

  “Since when does the FBI bust underage drinking?”

  I pulled Mitch to the balcony and threw Billy Ray’s pants and shoes into the pool. “Forged artwork. The bidet just watered one down.”

  “You and I don’t have anything to do with artwork, why do we care?”

  “They may do a sweep for drugs and Patsy has a bag of hooch on her. We need to find her before they do. Jump with me. We can call my FBI contact from the Brown’s and tell him what happened.”

  “Wait a minute. You have an FBI contact?”

  Car doors slammed. “I’ll explain later.”

  “Raz, there’s something you don’t know about me.”

  “What?”

  “I hate heights.”

  “It’s the quickest way to the boathouse.”

  Mitch and I stood at the edge of the balcony. He held my face in his hands and planted a kiss on my lips.

  “What was that about?”

  Mitch ran out the bedroom door and turned. “Hiccup remedy.

  “The FBI may be downstairs.”

  “See you on the dock.”

  MITCH CHOSE THE STAIRS and I debated joining him until I looked behind my shoulder at Billy Ray. He’d rolled out of the bathroom in a shirt and underwear, streaking blood across the McGee’s pecan wood floor. Climbing on top of the balcony, I aimed for the blue center and jumped. Plunging to the bottom, I pushed to break the surface, my heavy coat slowing my ascent. Sweet scented air filled my lungs, and my underwater camera floated an arm’s length away and my binoculars made the descent toward the pool bottom. Reaching for the camera, I’d have to remember to thank Macy for her foresight. I didn’t have time to dive for the binoculars and left them behind.

  I heaved myself out and hauled my waterlogged ass down the slope toward the river. I wanted to get far away from Billy Ray and the McGee’s property. But I needed to find Patsy, then Macy and Katie Lee. I inhaled nicotine before I spotted the lit cigarette. I knew the shadowy figure leaning against a giant oak. I gasped, “Bust. We need to get on the boat.”

  “Been skinny dipping with your clothes on?”

  “FBI is in the driveway. I’m guessing there’re here for the painting and Billy Ray. They may sweep for drugs.”

  Nash stubbed out his cigarette, “Why didn’t you say so?”

  We sprinted to the boathouse. “If anyone has anything illegal in their pockets, their ass will be piled into one of the vans for a visit to the pokey. Where’s Patsy?”

  Nash threw some items from his pocket into the bushes. “Inside.”

  “Katie Lee?” I asked.

  “On the dock.”

  “Macy?”

  “Foolin’ around with Stewart.”

  My hand rested on the door. “Are you serious?”

  Nash opened his mouth but didn’t speak. From the main house, a voice echoed through a megaphone, “This is the FBI, no one move.” That’s when everyone scattered like hatching spiders.

  “Get Patsy and Katie Lee in the boat. I’ll find Macy.”

  There were four upstairs bedrooms, and I had mixed emotions. On one hand, I hoped to hell that Macy was in one of them
. Then again, I wanted to kick her ass. She knew that Stewart was part of Jack and Billy Ray’s possie. Was the attraction to Stewart that magnetic? Had she tipped him off? I wondered how Billy Ray found me in the main house and considered leaving her.

  Three of the four bedroom doors were open, one closed. Against my apprehensions, I barged in. I found Macy and a compromised Stewart.

  “What are you doing to him?”

  “Getting information.”

  “Macy.”

  “What? He’s a prick.”

  Stewart wore white boxer-shorts with an all over UNC-Tarheel stamp and nothing else. Rope secured his arms and legs to the rustic bed’s head and foot post. He ranted verbal abuse into Macy’s padded, black-lace bra that plugged his gob.

  “Where’d you get the rope?”

  “Marina Supply Store.”

  Macy saw my eye graze a long piece of fishing line that draped across Stewart. She smiled. I exasperated, “I don’t even want to know.”

  I didn’t know how many agents had shown up, but I knew we didn’t have much time. “The Feds are here.”

  “Fuck.”

  “We need to get on the boat.”

  Before following me out, Macy retrieved her C-cup from Stewart’s mouth. “It’s been fun.”

  “Cunt. Untie me.” Stewart’s southern had gone missin’. He’d forgotten how to charm a lady.

  Macy and I heard the door slam. Below the staircase, partiers had scattered. Outside, we saw the shadow of Nash with Patsy on his shoulder. He hustled her down the slope toward the pier.

  At the top of the rail ties, we heard swishing of nylon jackets. Men in FBI windbreakers searched the perimeter of the main house.

  We sprinted toward Nash. “Ladies,” he said, “keep movin’.”

  Patsy perched her elbows on top of his shoulder. “What about Mitch?”

  “He knows,” I said. “He should be here.”

  Nash called out, “Katie Lee get those boat keys ready.”

  Katie Lee had seen the bust unfold and had relocated the Bayliner to the end of the dock. We sprinted the few yards left when Macy shouted, “My shoe.”