Watching a stern-looking woman with a clipboard who was apparently taking inventory, he grinned, thinking that they’d never find his underground supply room. An old root cellar a few hundred yards from the house, John only found it by accident, when he was clearing brush and heard a hollow sound beneath the tractor. The cellar was dug by the original farming family who owned the land. But as the house was handed down, the younger generations no longer worked the land, and the cellar was forgotten. John lined his secret place with bricks, replaced the rotted shelves, and made a new camouflaged entry door—which he covered with pine straw and leaves. The reinforced door was thicker than the original and actually held a layer of dirt, complete with weeds growing out of it. His small team of men kept supplies in a separate storage facility, but the root cellar was known only to John.
Yes, they could spend the entire morning rummaging through his belongings for all John cared. There wasn’t a thing to link him to Mama Jean’s murder. Or the Jill Burns bitch. He’d planted the car bomb as an insurance policy and, after he heard her voicing accusations about him, he was glad he’d had the foresight to do so. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the BMW suddenly pull into a car wash and saw her jog into the parking lot to chase something during the ten-second remote detonation delay. The blast hadn’t killed her as planned, but right now, John had more urgent matters to deal with. Just two days away, the big wedding would be here before he knew it. He’d deal with Jill later.
NINETEEN
My father could play a role and Sally Stillwell of Eclectic Arts&Leisure magazine hovered around him as though Spud were a modern-day Leonardo da Vinci. Once he learned that he was going to be on the cover, he threw himself into character: charming, eccentric ex-cop turned brilliant creator. Enamored by the concept of emblematic human frailty, the magazine writer bought into the explanation that, for confidentiality reasons, Spud couldn’t reveal the details of where and how the Chrysler had been transitioned from reliable transportation into a bold, artistic statement. Which was good, since publicizing the deadly shootout at my pub would not have conformed to Wilmington’s Southern, genteel image.
Dirk, Ox, Ruby, and I looked on while Sally interviewed Spud at the Block. Only Ruby had trouble keeping a straight face. The rest of us were stupefied and listened in amazement at the words coming out of my father’s mouth.
“Excellent, excellent,” Sally said to herself and scribbled on a pad. “This is really good stuff. So then, Spud, how did your group get together? And are any of the other law-enforcement artists coming today? We’d love to get their photos, too.”
Spud’s walking cane waved back and forth. “No, the other officers are active duty and they like to keep a low profile. But, see, we’re like a rock band and I’m the lead singer. The helpers might change, but I envision the sculptures. Road Rage was actually my personal vehicle.”
“Really? How interesting.” She scribbled. “What do you drive now?”
Before Spud could launch into a rampage about the state of North Carolina taking away his driver’s license, Dirk intervened. “He’s decided not to drive at all, to reduce his carbon imprint.”
Spud is about as environmentally conscious as a Texas oilman toting himself around in a Hummer. The original Hummer.
“Er, right,” Spud agreed, trying to figure out what a carbon imprint was. “My friends carry me to appointments and such. And to my studio. We carpool.”
When asked why his work hadn’t been on display in any galleries, Spud told her that nobody wanted his work because he is too old. Gallery owners just didn’t have any respect for aging artists, he said, even though eighty was the new fifty and he had plenty of good years left in him.
“The shit’s getting thick around here and these are new shoes,” Ruby whispered and sashayed off, shaking her head.
Asking me a question about what it was like to live with such a talented man, Sally mistakenly thought I was Spud’s granddaughter. She didn’t realize that he’d impregnated my mother when he was twice her age, and I didn’t mention that he’d walked out on both of us several years later. I gently declined to be interviewed and tossed her questions back to Spud. Ox and Dirk did the same. If Sally thought it odd that nobody wanted to talk with her except the artist himself, she didn’t show it. The interview went on for another hour, with Sally quizzing Spud about his views on everything from global warming to crime prevention.
“You are quite the visionary and a fabulous example for senior citizens everywhere,” she said and finally closed her notepad.
My father managed to look modest. “Thank you.”
“We’re flying out tomorrow but we’ve contracted with a local photographer to get some shots of the current sculpture you’re working on. Of course, Road Rage will be on the cover with an inset body shot of you, but the editor wants additional shots of your other work. You said it will be finished next week, right?”
Spud’s cane shrugged. “Sure, next week. No problem.”
After handshakes and hugs, and a few more photographs of Spud posing with Cracker “just for safety,” the writer and photographer were gone. Dirk left for work and Ox and Ruby got back to work.
“What the heck is a carbon print for crying out loud?” Spud said.
“Imprint, or footprint. It’s a measurement of your impact on the environment, based on how much energy you use,” I said. “How are you going to have another sculpture ready by next week?”
“No problemo, kid,” he said. “We’ve got a plan. Me, Bobby, Hal, and Trip. Four heads are much better than—”
“Right, right. Four heads are better than one.” It was one of Spud’s favorite expressions. But in their case, four heads probably equaled one and a half. Maybe two, if they’d all had their coffee. I decided to skip the details on his sculpting, since I already had a massive headache and didn’t want to aggravate it. The doctor warned me that I might have a lingering headache for weeks or even months from the concussion. But at least I was out of the hospital and my up-front hazard pay bonus check had been sitting on the kitchen counter when I got home.
Meanwhile, there were more pressing issues than Spud and his art career. Somebody had tried to kill me, for starters, and I strongly believed that it was the same man I’d shared stuffed shrimp with at Elijah’s. John could also be behind a planned terrorist attack, the whole reason I was called back to SWEET duty to begin with. And I no longer had a means of transportation. The insurance people made it clear that they wouldn’t pay my claim until they were certain that I hadn’t blown up my own Beemer. Puhlleeeze.
With Cracker on my heels, I headed upstairs and phoned my old pal Floyd, overseer of auctions and granter of wishes.
“Jersey?” he said. “Thanks for the case of Maker’s Mark, although you didn’t have to do that. I still would have taken care of my favorite SWEET girl.”
“That’s good,” I said, cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder while I struggled with the lid of a Tylenol bottle, “because I need another car. Got anything in my color?”
He laughed, coughed. “You’re messing with me right? That X5 is a sweet set of wheels.”
“She certainly was. But she got, uh, car-bombed. There was a big kaboom and parts shot everywhere. There’s not even anything left to salvage.”
Floyd lit a cigarette and inhaled. “You hurt?”
“Nope, just a lingering headache. I thought you went on the patch.”
“I did, but they made my skin break out. Itched like mad.”
I finally got a few pills out of the bottle and let Cracker sniff them to prove I wasn’t withholding a treat. His nostrils worked for a second before he sauntered off with a sigh. “Try the nicotine gum.”
“You’re not going to get another phenomenal deal like the BMW, Jersey. That was a chance thing.”
I rubbed a temple, wishing my head would stop hurting. “I know, and I’m not even going to be choosy this time. Just send me whatever you’ve got.”
He lau
ghed. “Even the Volvo wagon?”
“Except for that. Actually, I’d even take the Volvo at this point, but I can’t afford it. The price tag can’t be more than a few thousand. Insurance company won’t pay my claim on the X5 until they’re sure I didn’t blow it up myself.”
“Did you?” he said and laugh-coughed.
“You really need to try the gum, Floyd,” I said. “You know what? I’ll send you a carton of Nicorette this time, since you’re all set on bourbon for a while.”
“And I’ll find you a good, reliable set of wheels. Might even manage something in black—your favorite color. But don’t expect too much,” he warned before disconnecting.
TWENTY
“This just won’t do!” said Allyson Cooper, mother of the bride. “We need enough chairs and tables so that every single guest can be seated to eat dinner at the same time.”
The wedding planner silently counted to five, hearing the chime of a wedding bell on each beat. It was a trick he’d learned to keep his cool. “There’s another truck on the way, Mrs. Cooper. We’ll have a total of twenty-eight tables with linen, full-service china, and silver flatware. At six guests per table, we can accommodate one hundred and sixty-eight people, and that doesn’t include the furniture on the lanai or the tables around the pool.”
She nodded to herself. “Well, just be sure to reserve the prime tables for me and my husband and his staff. And Daryl’s parents. Oh, and the mayor and his wife. I find it damned interesting that they’d never give us the time of day, until Butch was appointed secretary of Defense six years ago. Now, they act like we’ve been best friends for life. The mayor told Butch he wouldn’t miss our daughter’s wedding for anything, can you believe that? Flying in from LaGuardia, just for the ceremony.”
“Yes ma’am. I mean, uh, no ma’am.”
“So we’ll need four tables reserved for my husband and our guests, and make sure they’re in an area that security won’t bitch about. They need to be accessible and in view at all times. Be sure to mark them reserved.”
“Yes ma’am,” the planner said and jotted something down.
“The security detail will also need the rundown on exactly what that ridiculous singer is going to do for her entrance. I’ve never even heard of the band Feather Heavy, but Janie and Daryl wouldn’t hear of using anyone else. The things we do for our children.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The planner didn’t bother to tell the woman that Feather Heavy currently had not just one, but two songs on the top-ten country charts. Fans loved the lead singer, who was into extreme sports. They called her the wild child and raved over her grand entrances. For the wedding, she’d be parachuting to a cordoned spot on the lawn where her band would be waiting. He could have thrown an entire second wedding for the money that Feather Heavy would be paid.
“And there will be a separate dining area for the media, yes? We’re only talking about six or so, maybe ten or twelve if any of them bring a guest. Low key. Still, we’ll have a writer and photographer from People magazine, another from that Washington insider monthly rag and, of course, the local newspapers. Plus our own publicist and the wedding photographers. And some social gossip woman. The lizard lady, maybe?”
“It’s Lady Lizzy, ma’am. And yes, we’re setting up a separate tent for the media right now.”
“Good. That is all.”
“Rich people,” the planner muttered to himself, as soon as the woman couldn’t hear him. It would all be over tomorrow, thank goodness. Another successful union. Then, he and his staff could focus on the next nuptial event. At least the next mother he had to deal with was much more pleasant than Mrs. Cooper. Sidestepping a few electricians who were stringing lights, the wedding planner rubbed a hand over tired eyes. It wasn’t an easy job by any means, but landing the Cooper-Hodges wedding and reception meant a slam dunk for his portfolio. Put the word out that you’d coordinated an elaborate event for the secretary of Defense and his wife at a private residence, not to mention an event for nearly two hundred people, and you didn’t even have to pitch a new client. They booked you without bothering to get quotes first.
Activity surrounded the wedding planner as he moved across the grounds. Teams worked inside the traditional coastal-style, elevated two-story home, and outside in the expanse of gardens and natural vegetation that led to a scenic sandy beach. Depending on which direction a guest looked, they could view the entrance to the Cape Fear River or an expanse of Atlantic Ocean. And, coordinating a wedding and reception on North Carolina’s southernmost cape island was a feather in his nuptial cap, just due to the logistics. The residential island was accessible only by boat or chopper and automobiles weren’t permitted. Even the golf carts had to be electric. Just planning the movement of guests from Southport to the island’s marina, and then to the home by golf cart, was a challenge. But money could buy most anything, including an upper-class wedding on Bald Head Island.
The actual ceremony would take place on a flower-drenched stage that was designed to take advantage of a glistening ocean backdrop, after which guests would file up a sandy pathway to the back lawn for the reception. The bride and groom had insisted on getting married at the house, since that’s where they first met. He was the contractor who built her grandparents’ retirement home, and when he first spotted the visiting granddaughter, it was instant attraction. They were engaged shortly after, and the young couple wouldn’t hear of exchanging wedding bands anywhere else.
The good news for the wedding planner was that the grandparents were happy to oblige and didn’t mind all the strangers filtering through their house with decorations and furniture. The grandfather, a devout Catholic, hadn’t even complained about the logistics of having two clergymen—one Roman Catholic priest and one Presbyterian preacher—who would co-perform the wedding ceremony.
The wedding planner just hoped that both holy men would say a prayer for the couple and their happy day, as he’d take all the help he could get. Regardless of the best food, entertainment, and support staff that money could buy, sometimes things just went wrong.
TWENTY-ONE
Waking up with a headache was getting old. I asked Ox to give me one of his tribe’s cherished natural cure recipes for a concussion, but the only advice I could squeeze out of him was to rest and drink lots of fluids. I wanted to get back to work but Ashton instructed me to lie low. Other than reporting any unusual sightings or accidental contact with a POI, my assignment was officially over, at least as far as Ashton was concerned. But he didn’t need to know what I did with my own time. And I figured it would behoove me to figure out who tried to kill me, and more important, why. As I waited for Captain Pete to show up, I thought about hitting the gym, but quickly realized that attempting to exercise would be idiotic. Just bending over to stretch my calf muscles made me dizzy. Peeling a banana, I decided to go for a facial instead of a workout. Maybe I’d get a hot-stone massage at the spa, too.
“There are plenty of ways to destress besides punching and kicking a heavy bag,” I told Cracker and dropped a piece of banana into his ever-ready snout. I took his wagging tail as a sign of agreement.
Spud had left early for his studio and I was on my own for breakfast. Since I hadn’t swiped any egg molds from Mama Jean’s truck, the fruit would have to do. When Lindsey moved in, Spud started cooking breakfast and we’d all been eating well. But now, after my close call with a car bomb, everyone decided that it wasn’t safe for Lindsey to continue living at the Block. She packed her one giant piece of rolling luggage and moved back to her father’s place. I got the impression that Louise still occupied the spare bedroom and Lindsey slept on the sofa, but I forced myself not to inquire. It wasn’t my business. What is that old saying? Something about loving something and setting it free… if it comes back, then great, but if it doesn’t, then it was a stupid idea to begin with. Or something like that. If Ox and I were meant to be together, we would. The spirits would see to it. And my stomach couldn’t take worrying about it any further.
I finished the banana and nursed a cup of coffee, hoping caffeine might help alleviate the pressure in my head, when it dawned on me that Spud might not be safe, either. I could be a walking target. The safety of the patrons at my bar was compromised, too. Ashton had me on round-the-clock surveillance and, as far as we could determine, nobody at Sunny Point knew me by any name other than Jill Burns. But if John—or whoever planted the car bomb—was cunning enough to blow up my Beemer, he could very well track me to the Block. Living on my boat was the only reasonable thing for me to do. It is big enough to comfortably accommodate four people overnight and even has a small dishwasher, washing machine, and dryer onboard. Plus I’d be mobile and could dock at different marinas as needed.
I started packing a duffel bag when my kitchen door buzzed. The security monitor displayed Captain Pete, who—to my delight—was carrying a big box of doughnuts.
“Cripes, it’s only ten in the morning,” he said in greeting, “and it’s already sweltering hot. I just saw a dog chasing a cat and they were both walkin’.”
I fixed him a glass of ice water, dug in to a lemon-filled—my favorite—and asked him to give me the rundown on Southport. He grew up there and knows the town’s idiosyncrasies as well as its waterways. We talked our way through six doughnuts and a pot of coffee and I decided that I should have enlisted Pete’s help much sooner.
“They’re right secretive at Sunny Point, so I don’t know much about it. No more so than any of the locals know,” he said, letting Cracker lick the sugar off his fingers. “I hear tell there’ve been more rumblings than usual, lately, in Southport.”
“Rumblings?”
Pete leaned back and stretched. “Big rumbling booms, loud enough to rattle the windowpanes and skew the pictures on your walls. They happen on a purt regular basis, every two or three months. Sometimes, you might get two or three in the same week.”
T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 02 - Southern Poison Page 11
