“Hi, guys.” I gave them my friendly and eager-to-please smile from the window of my oversized, boxy truck. “I’m taking over for Mama Jean and I know she serves a lot of people who work here, but I’m not sure where she parked,” I lied, knowing she parked a mile back, just off the intersection.
A man with the last name of Henson—according to his name badge—leaned back on his heels and grinned. “Looks like Jean is leaving her business in very good hands, Miss …”
“I’m Jill. Jill Burns.”
“Well, Jill, you’ll need to park this baby off-property.” The man leaning against a guard shack paid close attention but his face remained impassive, almost hostile. Three others openly followed the conversation, but were content to let their buddy deal with me. Henson lowered his voice. “That’s the official answer. But really, you can probably get away with setting up just inside the first gate you came through, by the intersection. Mama Jean’s been parking there for years, so I doubt anybody will hassle you.”
“Great, thanks.”
All five men watched as I pulled forward and made a slow U-turn. I waved as I passed. Nobody waved back, but Henson nodded once.
I drove back toward the main intersection and angled the truck into a well-used horseshoe on the side of the road. As Mama Jean instructed during our telephone training session, I prepped everything before I flipped up my side flaps and lowered out the serving counter. When I opened for business, a few cars stopped almost immediately, and not surprisingly, they inquired about Mama Jean and her condition. She was fine, I reported, and resting comfortably. By nine o’clock, I’d small-talked myself into a slightly dazed, smiling stupor. And I’d only checked out somebody’s private parts once. My first three hours back into undercover work and all I’d learned was that some men don’t tuck it either way. Apparently, straight down works, too.
I also learned from one particularly gossipy group of three car-pooling women that Mama Jean consistently overcooked eggs and had a reputation for serving stale biscuits, which explained why most people purchased only coffee or bottled juice and prepackaged muffins. The preparation instruction manual supplied by a helpful food distributor offered several nifty hints, such as, place the thawed-out biscuits in the steamer for twelve seconds before serving and use the round egg mold for perfectly cooked eggs every time. Apparently, Mama Jean hadn’t bothered to read the manual, which meant that nobody would expect too much out of me. I had nowhere to go but up with my breakfast cooking skills.
By the time I dropped the truck at the designated warehouse, swapped it for my economy-sized rental car, and drove home, exhaustion had set in and it wasn’t yet eleven in the morning. I grabbed the newspaper and a beverage and had just gotten comfortable in a chaise lounge on my outside balcony when Soup phoned.
“How was your first day on the vomit van?”
“I learned that sometimes they just hang straight down. And I made nineteen dollars in tips.”
“I’m not going to ask about your newfound knowledge on perpendicularity, and you should probably turn over all of your tips.”
I planned to turn the bills over, all right. As I stuffed them in my wallet. “What’s up?”
“Hacked into Lady Lizzy’s computer.”
“The gossip columnist?” Lady Lizzy is who locals turn to for the latest Wilmington-area scoop. She has a column, a radio talk show, and a blog.
“Yep. Her home computer is set to allow remote access, probably so she can get in from her work computer. Or maybe to get technical help. Anyway, I tiptoed in and found her calendar of upcoming events to be most interesting.”
I popped the tab on a Coors Light, promising myself that it would be my only one for the day. Even though it wasn’t yet lunchtime, it sure felt like it. “Soup, you’re amazing.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“And you’re cocky.”
“Like I said, tell me—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know that I’m going to owe you. Watcha got?”
“Using the Star-News and the State Port Pilot event blurbs, the chamber of commerce calendar, and Lizzy’s juicy stuff, I’ve compiled a list of potentially suspect activities. Those with celebs, high-profile politicians, and a large planned attendance. Hundred-mile radius and two months out, as requested.”
“With exact dates and locations?”
“Of course. Even have the contact person or event planner for most.”
The beer cooled my insides as it slid down and pooled satisfyingly in my stomach while my brain wrapped itself around the good news I’d just received. I’d have to get a Sunny Point delivery schedule along with the rail and road routes used. “So then, I can map out the location of the events and see if any correspond with travel routes of incoming shipments to the ammo dump.”
“You betcha. If you can work that in between your bridge clubs and bingo nights.”
“For your information, even when I do manage to retire for real, I won’t be hanging out in a bingo hall. And I don’t know how to play bridge,” I said.
“You could always form a shuffleboard league.”
“I owe you, guy.”
“No shit,” he said before hanging up.
EIGHT
Daydreming, Peggy Lee Cooke let her outstretched palms caress the rows of hanging gowns as she roamed the aisles of Llewellyn’s Bridal Shoppe. She loved the satiny feel of the fabrics and the delicate lace and beads that could make a person appear sexy and virginal all at the same time. She stopped to watch a young woman and her mother, undeniably jealous of the fact that this girl already had a wedding date. Not to mention a mother who was obviously involved in her daughter’s life.
Peggy couldn’t stand the stepmother who’d raised her and she wouldn’t have the benefit of a doting mother-in-law, either. Chuck’s parents were both killed in Bangladesh, along with more than two hundred other employees and residents, during an industrial explosion. The only reason Chuck didn’t die with them, he’d told her, is because he lived in the States at the time, earning a chemical engineering degree. Bond Chemical had transferred his father from Connecticut to head up the new overseas operation. It was a lucky career advancement, people said back then. But now, everyone knew better. Chuck had spit on the employer-paid life insurance benefit check with plans to send it back when he realized that he could put the money to good use. Combined with the settlement funds from a class-action lawsuit, it was enough capital to start a business. Today, Chuck’s company was hugely successful and, thanks to his old Ivy League fraternity friends, boasted a heavy-hitting client list that included several government contracts. But Chuck still thought of his dead parents every day, he’d confided to Peggy. He imagined the terror they must have felt during the last minutes of their lives. And every flashback of the parents he lost made Chuck even more angry at all the manufacturers who continued to churn out loads of nonessentials for product-hungry Americans—everything from expensive cosmetics to cheap trinkets. It was all so senseless, he’d said, and Peggy agreed. People were materialistic and wasteful, he’d explained, and Peggy agreed. She agreed with everything he voiced. She loved him. And even though Chuck continued to mourn, Peggy knew she could help him heal.
Watching the mother-daughter pair shop, Peggy experienced a flash of resentment at having been cheated out of the mother-in-law she’d never know. She missed Chuck’s parents, too, and she’d never even met them.
“We can have any gown delivered right to the wedding location,” a clerk was telling the pair. “It’s a residence, yes?” The woman rattled off a street address and the clerk replied that she could deliver to any location within thirty miles. They discussed details of the wedding after which the mother dismissed the sales clerk with a few curt words.
“Mom, there is plenty of time, really,” Peggy heard the college coed-looking girl say. “My gown is the main thing that matters.”
“Your wedding is next month. That’s only three weeks away, and right now, everything matters!
We need to finalize the menu by tomorrow. The wedding planner is threatening to quit if we don’t sit down with him and finish choosing the flowers and decorations. And whichever gown you get, it will probably have to be altered. Seriously, Janie, there is a lot to do.”
The girl held a bright white strapless gown against her body and studied the effect in a full-length mirror. “You’re just freaking out because Daddy’s entourage will be there. Everything has to be perfect since it’s a great photo op for the press. And of course you want to impress all his supporters, with your big dreams of being the first lady if he actually runs in the next election. And the mayor of New York City? Whoop-di-do. Daryl and I could care less if he’s there, even if he is best friends with Daddy.” The girl spun sideways to get a better view of the gown’s detachable train. “You don’t care about what I want.”
The mother turned her daughter around by the shoulders and spoke in a low controlled voice, but it was loud enough so that Peggy could keep eavesdropping. “First of all, you will not speak to me like that. And second of all, your father and I are spending a fortune on this wedding. The only reason we’re doing it here is because it’s what you wanted, even though I’ve had the Starlight Roof at the Waldorf-Astoria reserved for a year. If this was all about what I wanted, you’d be getting married in Manhattan instead of here. So quit being bratty about everything and for God’s sake, pick out a gown already!”
The girl sighed, dropped the dress. “I’m sorry, Mom. I like the other dress, the one they’re holding at that little bridal boutique on Oleander Drive.”
Mother and daughter hustled out the front door without bothering to thank anyone. Peggy picked up the discarded strapless number and held it up with one hand while scrunching her hair in a makeshift twist with the other.
“Would you like to try it on?” a saleswoman asked.
Peggy checked the price tag. Twenty-seven hundred and sixty-five dollars. “No thanks, not today.”
She left the store with a smile, thinking that soon, a three-thousand-dollar dress wouldn’t be a problem. Heck, when her time came, Chuck would spend thirty-three thousand dollars for a dress if that’s what she wanted. Once Project Antisis took off, there would be no limit to what she could have. They would be rich.
NINE
It was a great day and then it wasn’t, and then it was again. My used—but new to me—BMW X5 arrived and she was a beauty. Shiny black on the outside and creamy soft tan leather on the inside. To my delight, Floyd had even put a brand-new set of tires on it for me. I found a note in the glove box that read: “Try not to get this one shot up, will you? Floyd.” With Ox riding shotgun and Lindsey in the back, I immediately went for a test drive through Wilmington’s historic residential district and fell in love. The delivery made my day.
But then Ashton ruined a perfectly good natural high by refusing to give me the information I wanted. I didn’t need the details on incoming or outgoing container loads of ammo, he told me. Furthermore, he said, I had no need to know the routes they’d travel, much less the time of day they’d be traversing rail or road. Before disconnecting, Ashton reminded me that I was in place as a trained observer, not an investigator. Whatever, as Lindsey would say. Simply asking for information is the easy way to acquire it, but there are plenty of other methods.
“Fine, that’s just fine,” I grumbled to Ox. After our test drive, Lindsey had disappeared to explore the riverwalk on foot and Ox and I had plopped down at a round table outside the Block. The Block’s patio is constructed of wide bricks over a bed of sand, and small greenish brown chameleons darted among the tables and chairs, hunting insects only they could see. Word is, they eat mosquitoes, too, so I like the reptiles. “If SWEET wants to pay me nineteen hundred dollars a week to serve freakin’ egg biscuits out of a truck, then that’s what I’ll do.”
“Uh-huh,” Ox said. “You’ll keep digging.”
I wiped at a miniscule stream of perspiration that intermittently dropped between my breasts, tickling the crevice over my breast-bone. July is supposedly the hottest month in Wilmington, but August always seems hotter to me. Something about the month of August feels sensual, or maybe the long days are just plain sweaty and sticky. Perhaps it depends upon one’s mood. Despite the day’s heat index, though, outdoor breezes and stimulating smells had drawn a gathering of patio customers.
Relaxing beneath the shade of an umbrella and passively observing the activity around us was indulgent, and aside from being disgruntled, I physically felt perfectly content. “Ashton said they are closely monitoring all movement of munitions and have added extra security. Like that’s a good reason I can’t have the requested route and delivery schedule.”
“With a wave, Ox acknowledged a couple of regulars entering the pub. “Guess Ashton is big on the need-to-know-basis concept.”
I handed over the calendar of social events that Soup compiled. “You make anything of this?”
Ox scanned the data. The list was comprehensive and included political fund-raisers, charitable fund-raisers, grand-opening events, various festivals, a number of private functions, and an invitation-only showing of a soon-to-be-released film that had been shot in Wilmington. We discussed the movie—a harmless romantic comedy—and went over each event in some detail.
“What are the three double-starred entries?” Ox said.
“They came from Lady Lizzy’s computer. Scheduled events marked with stars, but no additional details. Based on her columns, I’d guess they are happenings where somebody big is expected to attend. A celebrity, maybe.”
“Think the three events are connected?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Maybe we should go talk to her.”
“Sure,” I agreed. “But we’ll need something to trade. Lizzy won’t give anything away unless she gets something in return. And we certainly can’t mention the phrase ’terrorist attack’ or she’d write a panic column that would evacuate the entire peninsula.”
Ox poured some ice water over a thick napkin and wiped the back of his neck. Either I was sun-drunk, or the move was sexy. Undeniably sexy. Crazy, abandon-all-reason, undeniably sexy. It made me want to finish what he started by wiping down his face and chest, slowly, with an icy cold cloth. Like I said, August is a sensual month.
“So, back to my original question.” I held up the stapled papers and shook them. “You make anything of this list?”
“Other than the logical assumptions we’ve already discussed? No.”
I cut my eyes up to the sky. “What about them?”
“The spirits?”
“Yeah, your protective spirits, your instincts, your uniquely accurate gut feelings? All of them. What do they say about my list?”
Ox leaned back to reposition his legs, crossing them at the ankles after kicking off a pair of leather boat shoes. He wore Bermuda shorts and a nearly hairless, well-muscled leg brushed mine when he settled into his new position. I almost wanted to forget about work in lieu of determining how my relatively light skin would look next to his golden-olive pigmentation. The vivid thought pricked at my nerve endings. All of them.
Ox caressed my bare leg with a naked foot. “Your own instincts are just fine, Jersey Barnes, and you should trust them. What are they telling you right now?”
I slid my feet out of their sandals and returned the toe caress. “That playing footsies with my best friend and business partner is much more fun than thinking about terrorists?”
The arch of his right foot traveled up the inside of my left leg, stopping just below my knee. A vibration of energy continued upward. My eyes closed in response and when I opened them, Ox was staring at my mouth. His eyes radiated pure appetite.
“Want to play more than footsies?” he said.
In high school, we’d simply been too young to concern ourselves with sex and were quite content to hit each other with gloved fists in the boxing ring as he taught me how to fight. My recollections fast-forwarded to five years ago, when he’d divo
rced and moved to Wilmington. The desire had revved up on several occasions, but there had always been some germane reason to avoid sex with each other. Mainly, I suppose, we didn’t want to mess up a good thing. But now, the August heat had disabled all reasoning capabilities and I couldn’t think. To heck with worrying about ruining a friendship.
“That’s a most enticing suggestion, Duke Oxendine.”
We headed upstairs to my bedroom, stripped off every thread of clothing, and didn’t emerge until the late afternoon heat gave way to a pastel-colored duskish sky. We knew each other better than anyone else in the entire world and the physical closeness, mouth against mouth, skin against skin, culminated a twenty-seven-year friendship. My earlier prediction had been accurate: sex with Ox is indescribable.
TEN
Ox’s scent clung to the sensors in my nose and my aura hovered somewhere near giddy. I was in such a good mood that I didn’t even mind my unplanned return to undercover work. It had taken several shifts on the roach coach for me to fall into a comfortable rhythm, and more important, for the regulars to become chummy with me. They stopped in clumps and hung around for several minutes to laugh, bitch, and talk about their upcoming workdays. I’d identified three civilians who were on Ashton’s persons of interest list, but all seemed like ordinary hard-working tax-paying citizens to me and none, according to the fluoroscope, were packing heat. Why they’d been identified as POIs made no sense to me, but as instructed, I completed my daily reports and e-mailed them from the onboard laptop computer. In addition to keeping a vehicle traffic count and gleaning intelligence information during five-minute chunks of conversation, I became a master with the grill—using the egg molds—and customers started ordering breakfast biscuits. Just for kicks, I ran a two-for-one special and discovered a direct correlation between free food and the number of bills in my tip jar.
T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 02 - Southern Poison Page 5
