by Stacy Green
He handed Jaymee printouts of the pictures Nick had sent. Six in all: an iron wedding ring purported to have been dug up from a South Carolina campsite at Gettysburg; an engraving of a woman and child by an artist Cage didn’t recognize; a tin document case; a ten-dollar Confederate note; a grubby looking pistol; and a wicked-looking knife.
Dani abandoned him and hung over Jaymee’s shoulder, squinting her eyes and biting her lips the way she always did when she concentrated. “That’s an amputation knife. Cuts through everything but bone. Same thing Jack the Ripper used.”
“I’d forgotten about these,” Jaymee said. “When he sent them, I was busy, and he didn’t tell me anything about them. Dani, can you tell if they’re real?”
“Not from the pictures. They all look like they could be authentic, but I’d have to examine them up close.”
“You and Nick didn’t talk about these?” Cage asked. “He didn’t tell you where the pictures were from?”
“No, like I said, I’d forgotten.”
She had to know something. Something had put her in danger. “What about issues with anyone local? Has Nick talked about anything concerning the town that he thought would make a good story?”
“Just the Semple deal. Which brings us back to Stanley.”
Cage ignored her pointed look. “Anyone in town Nick’s mentioned having a beef with? Run-ins?”
“Besides Paul?”
“Yes, obviously.”
“He thinks Ben Moore is scum,” Dani volunteered. “But then, who doesn’t?”
“He did tell me Ben fired the secretary that ratted him out to Nick,” Jaymee said. “But Ben never had the guts to confront Nick himself.”
Unsurprising. Ben might as well have been spineless. “Can you think of anyone else in town? Anyone he’s spent a minute bitching about?”
Jaymee stared into her coffee. The steam swirled around her making her skin look even more ashen. Her lips were chapped. She licked them, inhaled, and then exhaled hard.
“Dylan Asher.” She gnawed at the corner of her mouth. “Nick was drinking that night, so he was being snarky. But still—”
“Tell me anyway,” Cage said. Dylan Asher was a decent guy as far as Cage knew, if a little weak. He’d been part of the group that had tried to protect the Semple land but folded under the steel pressure of his father, the mayor.
“Couple of months ago, when I was still trying to decide about going on the Heritage Tour, Nick and I were video chatting. We’d both been drinking, and the subject of Dylan came up. Nick said something about him being a sneak, I think. When I questioned him, he said that Roselea’s upstanding citizen wasn’t as pristine as he wanted me to think. Apparently Nick saw Dylan in a bad part of town, skulking around. I told him he was probably going to a gay club and didn’t want anyone he knew to see him, the poor guy. Nick said there weren’t any in that area. Nothing but drug dealers and criminals. I blew him off because I didn’t want to argue.” Jaymee let out a shaky breath and took a long sip of coffee.
“He wouldn’t be the first person to go to Jackson for drugs,” Cage said. “Given he’s the mayor’s son and his dad keeps his foot up Dylan’s ass, going out of town for a habit, if he has one, isn’t out of the realm of possibility. Add that dad is licking Senator Booth’s heels—he was a very conservative Senator, from what I’ve been able to find out—and Dylan could need to self-medicate. I’ve never seen any sign of drug use, but some people are natural-born deceivers.”
Jaymee nodded. “But you know, Dylan doesn’t like Norton Investments. I assume Booth’s included in that. He’s trying to stop the zoning.” She looked at Dani, whose eyes were big and expression still. “And yesterday, he had red mud on his shoes, didn’t he?”
Dani gasped. “Shit, yes. And on the shovel.”
Cage listened as the women described Dylan’s plan to prospect the Semple land. “We did that already, more than a year ago. What’s he hoping to find? And why didn’t he speak up before the first zoning went through?”
“He said it was about power,” Dani said. “There was money in the land, and someone powerful pushed it through.”
“Mayor Asher, I bet,” Cage said. “And Booth.”
“Dylan isn’t telling us everything.” Jaymee set her cup down on the porch. Mutt appeared from nowhere and started lapping up the rest. She didn’t even notice. “Yesterday, when he asked for Dani’s permission, he never once looked either of us in the eye. That’s not like him. And I think he lied about being in Fayette. Plus, there’s the red mud.”
Cage sighed. “It’s a good lead, but that mud’s also in a lot of places, Jay, so don’t get your hopes up yet. Places where the soil is clay-like and full of rust. A lot of those places aren’t used for farming anymore, and there are a few bigger areas I know about. We’ve already checked them.”
Cage tried to keep his own mind objective. “Problem is, this is almost like looking for a needle in a shit haystack. Who knows where else there are small patches of that clay soil? It’s definitely something to go on, but it could be a coincidence. We don’t know of any motive Dylan would have to attack Nick.”
“Unless Nick saw him buying drugs and threatened to expose him,” Dani said.
“I doubt it,” Jaymee said. “That’s not a big enough story. Dylan’s small potatoes.”
A light breeze blew across the porch bringing with it a fresh, ominous whiff of smoke. Worry as sharp as a hunting knife sliced through Cage, and he was on his feet running into the house. He took the stairs two at a time, Dani and Jaymee following closely behind. Through the polished hallway, into CaryAnne’s old room, and out onto the widow’s walk. His ribs hurt from the pounding of his heart.
“What is it?” Dani caught up with him.
“Didn’t you smell the smoke?”
“We’ve been smelling it all morning.” Jaymee leaned against the iron railing.
“Not like that. The wind came from the south.”
Dani paled. Jaymee dropped her head. Mutt lapped at his hand.
“I’ll call in, get a report. If the wind’s changed north, you’re both out of here.” He looked at Dani. “Save what you can, but don’t take more than fifteen minutes.”
“You don’t know that it’s shifting.”
“In case it does.” He took one last look at the burning, southeastern sky. “I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”
His phone beeped with a call from Gina.
“What’s going on with the fire?” Cage said. “Wind looks like it’s shifting.”
“Contained right now,” Gina said. “Wind is supposed to stay mostly east. I’ve got some news from Nick’s editor in Jackson. This last week, Nick was flustered and running on adrenaline. Apparently that’s what he does when he’s onto something big.” Cage snorted at this description of his former brother-in-law. Gina went on, “He wouldn’t give her the details, but he did say Norton Investments had more shady deals going on than any company he’d investigated. When she pressed further, he wouldn’t say anything else other than if he did this right, this story would go national.” Gina paused, and her brief silence was followed by a yawn that immediately made Cage do the same. If I sit down again, I’ll pass out for sure.
“She did say they’ve been keeping an eye on Norton for quite a while,” Gina continued. “Seems they’ve been buying up properties in the lower south for the last few years on the claim of revitalizing the local economy. It’s worked in some places, but others have had major setbacks. Including a lawsuit over mold from wet wood and an investigation over fund allocation. In two different states, mind you. In both cases, when the problems started, Joseph Stanley was dispatched to deal with the locals. Then Booth showed up.”
“Shit,” Cage said. “So we’re back to Stanley.”
“Or his boss, Wyatt Booth. He’s the one with the political connections. If that company’s into anything illegal, he’s got his hand deep in the pie. He’s calling the shots. Stanley may just be the delivery guy.
”
“Guess I know where my next stop is.” Cage ended the call.
“Where are you going now?” Dani asked. “What about Dylan?”
“Dylan’s a volunteer firefighter, and I’m sure he’s out there. Gina said the wind’s not shifting, and I’ll have to wait to talk to him. In the meantime, I’m paying the mayor and his friends a visit.”
17
Cage dropped the shoe at the station, hoping to get some sort of trace evidence off it, and then headed back out to north side of town. Time to visit the richest family in Roselea. He hadn’t been to the plantation since high school, when Dylan threw a party while his parents were gone and then spent the entire time freaking out about the ruined antiques.
The Ashers had been in Adams County since Roselea’s earliest days, and they were one of the few families to still own and operate their original plantation. Evaline may have been the town’s newsmaker, but Ashland was the largest plantation around and nearly as old. Its white columns and curving design made Cage think of the White House, but the double staircase leading to a stately wraparound porch defined the exterior. Three times the size of Ironwood, with forty-four rooms, including a lavish oval ballroom with pure white walls and marble flooring, the house was an intimidating showstopper.
Along with Oak Lynn, Ashland was the only local plantation to have any of its original slave cabins. Sitting back several hundred feet from the house, they were blocked from view by towering maple trees. A long ago privacy barrier installed by the white masters.
Dylan lived at Ashland with his parents, although Cage heard they used opposite sides of the house, with Dylan in the old servants’ quarters kitchen. Cage supposed that gave him some privacy, but it wasn’t like he could bring a date home without facing the wrath of his small-minded father. Assuming the rumors were true. Given the father and son’s tenuous relationship and the fact Cage had never seen Dylan with a girlfriend, Cage bet there was something to those rumors. Not that he cared. He’d never understand why people spent so much time worrying about who someone else slept with.
“Wow. Place really did get hit.” A white, wooden fence separated Ashland’s sweeping lawn from the road, ripped apart in several places. One of the three live oaks had its branches stripped, and the indigo bushes lining the drive were mostly missing their spring blossoms. The shutters were torn off in the front of the house, with some damage to the porch railings. He figured the large debris pile on the side of the house must be the remains of the screened in porch.
Good thing the Ashers are old family money because these repairs won’t be cheap.
Dylan wanted no part of the family business, he told Cage last year when they worked together to save the Semple farm. More rift between father and son. Cage wasn’t surprised Dylan was still trying to save the property—after all, family is family. But Nick’s comments to Jaymee set Cage’s instincts humming. Drunk or not, Nick never said anything he didn’t mean or couldn’t back up. Bluntness was both a strength and weakness for his former brother-in-law.
Margaret Asher opened the door before Cage could knock. Short and slight, with eyes that looked too big for her face, Margaret looked like she could easily be broken in half. Rheumatoid arthritis left her hands gnarled and witch-like, and her pointed face, however kind her expression, didn’t help.
Right now, Margaret seemed ready to drop. “Why are you here? Has something happened to Dylan?”
Well, shit. He should have called first, but he wanted to surprise Mayor Asher and his buddies. “No, ma’am, he’s fine as far as I know. I’m here to talk to your husband and his visitors from Norton Investments. I’m sorry if I scared you.”
Her knobby right hand went to her throat. “Thank goodness. When I saw you pull up, my mind just went to the worst possible place. Come in, please.”
She led him through a massive foyer. The ceilings were at least eighteen feet, with detailed crown molding and strips of gilded gold. Cage peered at walls lined with family photos and paintings, most likely dating back to the year the house was built. He was always impressed when a family managed to hang on to a property for generations. It took a special formula of providence and determination to accomplish something like that.
“The men are in the music room,” Margaret said. “Sounds formal, but it really isn’t. My husband loves to play, and he’s turned it into a sort of personal sitting room.”
No, the room wasn’t formal at all. Just massive, with a bay window and accompanying seat big enough to double as a bed. A marble fireplace dominated the far wall while a grand piano—Cage read the logo twice to be sure it was a Steinway—had the place of honor on the opposite wall. Mayor Asher sat in a stiff, straight-backed chair while Stanley perched on the couch and Wyatt Booth lounged in the oversized recliner. Interesting seating arrangement. Subtle representation of power, perhaps?
Dealing with Beau Asher and his high-profile friends was going to be about as fun as an enema.
“Investigator Foster.” Mayor Asher stood up to shake his hand. “Congratulations on the promotion, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
Cage nodded at Stanley, who returned the gesture with clear reservation.
“This must be Mr. Booth.”
“Wyatt.” He stood up, politician smile at the ready, but winced, favoring his left leg. “How are things in town?”
“Stressful. I’m told the fire is under control, and of course—” he glanced at Stanley, “—we’re still looking for Nick Samuels.”
“Bad stuff there.” Booth sat back down and gestured for Cage to take the remaining seat. It was only then he realized Margaret had disappeared. Is she even allowed in the men’s nest?
Cage sat in a chair matching the mayor’s, noting again how Booth seemed to control the room. “As a matter of fact, Captain Barnes and I think the arson and the kidnapping may be related.”
“I suppose you’re here to accuse me of setting my own house on fire too?” Stanley spoke for the first time. His birdlike hands rested in fists on his lap. “I told your captain I would not submit to any tests. The idea is outrageous.”
“Of course it is.” Good cop was a role at which Cage excelled. Feeling stuck in Roselea for so long had given him a knack for empathy, making a man like Stanley easy to read. He was probably second-in-command at Norton but had enjoyed being the company big shot to the peons in Roselea. Now Booth is here and Stanley questioned by police. Hard on the ego.
“I don’t think you set the fire. And the Captain doesn’t either. We really just need to eliminate you as a suspect. But I understand your principles.”
“Then why are you here?” Booth asked in a charming Sunday reverend voice. It set Cage’s teeth on edge. He’d known one too many corrupt preachers.
“I need to establish a timeline with Mr. Stanley first. You left at about ten after four to pick up Mr. Booth at the airfield in Claiborne County, right?”
Stanley nodded, but Booth answered. “And my flight records show that, of course.”
“Of course,” Cage said. “But Jaymee is sure she saw you at Delta Correctional Facility earlier in the day. Did you fly into Fayette first?”
A faint flicker of irritation passed Booth’s face, his upper lip twitching for just an instant before another wry smile. “I thought the lady looked familiar. Yes, I did stop by DCF first. One of the guards is a family friend. I stopped to say hello. So my flight records reflect my earlier landing, around noon. I visited with the warden until Mr. Stanley arrived to pick me up.”
“The two of you got back to your house about an hour later.” Cage looked at Stanley. “And the fire was already going?”
“That’s right,” Stanley said. “Whole downstairs was in a blaze, and my first thought was, thank God, Jaymee must have left. Because I didn’t see her car.”
“I heard her cry for help,” Booth said. “I sent Stanley after the ladder.”
So Stanley didn’t act until Booth gave him an order. The dynamics were becoming cle
ar to Cage.
“I burned myself saving her.” Stanley held out his bandaged hand. “And she had the gall to accuse me of setting the fire.”
“She’s very sorry,” Cage lied. “She’s a wreck. Her boyfriend is missing, and she almost died. Neighbors saw you leave, but no one saw Jaymee arrive. Did you tell anyone she’d be cleaning, by chance?”
“No.”
“You haven’t had issues with any residents around here, have you?” Cage leaned forward, crossing his legs at the ankles. Inserting himself into the inner circle. “I know some people have been pretty upset with Norton Investments coming into town.”
“Now just a minute.” Mayor Asher cut in. Cage had almost forgotten he was there. Evidently, he was a silent part of the triangle. “That’s not true. Most Roselea citizens understand how important Norton Investments is to the city’s future.”
“I’m asking if Mr. Stanley’s had a problem with anyone since his arrival,” Cage said. “Any threats? Rocks through the windows? Nasty comments or confrontations?”
“None,” Stanley said. “Some dirty looks, questions about jobs, that sort of thing. But nothing out of line.”
“So your line of thinking is that this fire is about Jaymee rather than an attack on Stanley and me?” Booth asked.
“Right now, yes. Was anyone besides Stanley aware of your visit?”
Booth shook his head. “Spur of the moment decision. We’re coming up on the city council vote on the zoning, and I decided I needed to be here.”
“Explain that to me,” Cage said. “You bought the property believing it would be zoned commercially?”
“It had been zoned commercially,” Mayor Asher said. “But someone filed a motion based on the recent findings that Semple descendants are in fact related to the Laurents, who were, of course, the founding family of Roselea. It’s a bogus ploy the council will see through.” His gaze slid to Booth, and the mayor nodded, almost to himself, as if to reassure his owner everything was okay. He hadn’t misbehaved.
