by Vickie Fee
He gave thanks and we sat down to the table and began fixing our burgers.
“So how did your day go?” he asked. “You went shopping with your mama, right?”
“Yeah. I guess you could say it was successful. She bought a dress for her wedding.”
“What do you think of the dress?”
“It’s not any more ridiculous than the rest of her wedding wish list,” I said with honesty. “I also managed to finagle the police report about the vandalism at the Rowlands’ store from Dave.”
Finagle might have been an exaggeration, but I decided I deserved the credit anyway.
“Impressive. So what does it say?”
“You know, I’ve only glanced over it. I’ll read it to you after dinner.”
“That’s something to look forward to.”
After supper, I spooned some of the sliced peaches Mama had given me into a bowl and topped them with whipped cream for Larry Joe. We retired to the den and I read him the police report while he enjoyed his dessert.
“Let me see, ‘Incident Report, Reporting Officer (R/O) Ted Horton, case number . . .’ blah, blah. Okay, ‘at 7:25 AM on June thirty, Dispatch received a call reporting vandalism on Third Street in Dixie, Tennessee.
“ ‘The complainant identified himself as Bruce D. Rowland, co-owner, along with his brother, Bubba Rowland, of Rowland’s Building Supply. Upon arriving at the business and parking in his usual space in the rear alley, Rowland said he discovered graffiti spray painted along the rear wall wrapping around onto part of the side wall of the building. There was also broken glass on the pavement near the building that upon inspection was identified as falling from a small window on the second floor in the rear of the building.
“ ‘Upon arriving at the scene at 7:45 AM, R/O was met by Rowland and his wife, Carrie H. Rowland, who also works in the family business and said she arrived moments after her husband and parked beside his vehicle.
“ ‘Rowland told R/O he had locked up building and left for the night at approximately 9:00 PM the night before and was the first to arrive at the business that morning.
“ ‘Rowland confirmed that there were no video surveillance cameras overlooking the alley. Closer inspection of the broken window indicated it had been broken by an object thrown at it, creating a small hole and shattered pattern radiating from the center. The hole was not large enough for someone to reach through to unlatch the window and there was no indication that the window had been forced open.
“ ‘R/O photographed the scene, including the graffiti, which included obscenities, and the broken glass and windows. R/O also collected and took into evidence a large rock, which Rowland said he had not previously noticed in the alley and which may have been used to break the upper window, and two spray paint cans: Krylon brand paint, colors smoke gray and tangerine orange.
“ ‘When questioned about any suspicious activity or persons in the area preceding the vandalism, Rowland said there had been protesters with placards walking in front of the building the previous weekend. They were in opposition to a residential development that his brother was involved with. He said there had been some shouting, including profanities, but no violence. Rowland’s brother had filed a complaint about the protest incident, stating that the protesters were harassing customers and impeding entrance into the store.’”
I laid the report on the table.
“Any thoughts?”
“Breaking a window just to be destructive, since the break wasn’t big enough to let them get in, sounds like anger. Otherwise, the graffiti could just be chalked up to some kids cutting loose—not that I’m excusing that behavior. Were there any witnesses who saw someone hanging around the store?”
“No. And since there are no security cameras, they really have nothing to go on. One of the bad words on the wall was misspelled, so it probably wasn’t done by a genius.”
“Around Dixie that doesn’t narrow the field by much,” he said.
Chapter 12
I was moving pretty slow Wednesday morning for some reason and wasn’t dressed until after 8:30. Instead of having my usual toast or cereal I took the time to scramble some eggs and fry a couple of slices of bacon. I checked messages and e-mail on my phone as I lingered over a cup of coffee.
Since I didn’t have any meetings on the schedule I decided it would be a good time to figure out the guest capacity at Earl’s place. Theoretically, it was as big as all outdoors. But since the weather doesn’t always cooperate, we needed adequate space to accommodate all the guests under cover if it happened to rain.
I phoned Holly to see if she cared to join me since taking measurements is easier with two people.
“Morning, Holly. Are you up for a field trip today? And when I say field, I mean literally. I need to go out to Earl’s property and take measurements, especially of the barn. Mama has more than doubled the size of her guest list and I need to figure out how many people we can actually accommodate there.”
“Awlright, darlin’, what time?”
“You tell me, my schedule is wide open.”
“Let’s go this morning and then have lunch together,” she said.
“That sounds great.”
I arranged to meet her in front of the office at ten o’clock.
I thought we should go ahead and check out the space in the house and on the wraparound porch for a pass-through reception if by some miracle Mama actually cut the guest list. Plus, it would be nice to have access to the indoor plumbing if we ended up being out there for a while. So I called Earl, told him what Holly and I were up to, and asked if I could swing by the store and pick up a set of house keys.
“You can if you want. But there’s also a spare key under the pair of boots by the back door.”
“You keep a key under your boot? Where do you put it when you wear your boots?”
“I haven’t worn those boots in years. I guess you could call them decorative at this point.”
When I pulled up in front of the office, I could see through the front window that Holly was inside Sweet Deal Realty chatting with Winette. Holly spotted me and hurried out the door to the car. I exchanged a wave with Winette.
Holly was wearing blue jeans, which is unusual for her. But they were bell-bottoms, so they didn’t stray completely from her signature style.
Earl lives a few miles out of town. It’s a fairly smooth ride until turning off on his road, which hasn’t been repaved in who knows how long. The house sits a good way back from the road. I pulled into the gravel driveway and slowly bumped along until I was beside the house.
“It’s been some time since I was out here,” I said. “I’d forgotten how pretty it is. Shall we check out the house or the barn first?”
“Let’s measure the barn first, which I imagine is pretty warm. Then we can retreat into the air-conditioning in the house,” Holly said.
“Good plan.”
We walked around to the back of the white farmhouse with a broad porch on three sides. The front door looked freshly painted in an emerald shade of green and I wondered if Earl had chosen the color to match Mama’s eyes. But maybe I was just being sappy.
I’d estimate it was about a hundred feet from the back of the house to the faded red barn. It was another hundred feet or so from the side of the barn to the edge of a large pond with a little island in its center. Unlike the recently mowed surroundings, the island was covered in tall grass. I made a mental note that the island would need to be mowed or weed whacked before the wedding. It wouldn’t look proper for Mama to have weeds lapping up to her knees.
The double barn doors were standing open. There was a stack of hay bales at the back, a riding mower, a small Bush Hog tractor, a rotary tiller, and various garden implements rowed up against one wall. It would need some cleaning out before the wedding, but it was pretty clean for a barn.
I stood just inside the wooden structure, took the electronic tape measure out of my purse, and pointed the laser at the back wall. Next I stoo
d against one of the side walls and aimed the laser toward the other side.
“Okay, Holly, it looks like the barn is fifty by thirty, which is fifteen hundred square feet.”
Holly entered the square footage into a space calculator that works out how many people a space can accommodate. It even refines the estimate based on how the space will be set up for the occasion—banquet tables, buffet tables, stages, dance floor, and so on.
“We’ll need a stage for the band, right?” Holly asked.
“Yeah. And in case of rain, I think we’d use the platform for the ceremony, as well. And we’re planning on a buffet for 150 to 160 people.”
Holly entered all the pertinent information into the calculator.
“Awlright, depending on which calculator you use, we can manage 140 to 166 guests,” she said.
“That’s good. Mama’s got 152 people on her list right now. She’s bound to add a few more. But at least a few of those invited won’t attend, so we should be able to make it work—just barely. I need to get a look at that list and figure out how many are likely attendees. I feel certain she’s sending invitations to some out-of-towners she doesn’t want to offend, but who won’t actually come.”
“We’ll pray for good weather—but be prepared, just in case.”
I nodded in agreement.
We headed to the house to check the space there, in the unlikely event that I, or Earl, could persuade Mama to trim her guest list. I retrieved the key from under the boot.
From the back porch we stepped into a large den with a fireplace. It had a decidedly masculine feel, with a well-worn leather sofa and chairs and deer trophy heads above the mantel. We took measurements in the den before moving to the living room at the front of the house. It was much more formal, with Victorian settees, or what I always think of as funeral parlor furniture, since that was how the funeral home was furnished when I was growing up.
Our measurements and calculations confirmed my assessment that we could accommodate sixty or so people circulating on the porches and through the house.
The house was surprisingly tidy for a bachelor, but then Earl wasn’t exactly unattached. Some of the organization, especially in the kitchen, and the dust-free condition of the entry hall table caused me to suspect Mama’s handiwork. Although the two of them spent a good deal more time at Mama’s house, I suspected she made regular trips here for cleaning and maybe even a bit of romance. The thought made me smile.
Holly interrupted my reverie.
“I suppose they’ll live full-time at your mama’s after they’re married.”
“Mama hasn’t said so, but I can’t imagine her giving up her kitchen.”
“I wonder if Earl will hang on to this place. It could be a nice retreat for them,” Holly said.
We locked up the back door and replaced the key in its hiding place before driving back to town.
* * *
Holly and I had enjoyed a leisurely lunch at Taco Belles. Supper tonight at my house was going to be leftovers from lunch for me and a to-go box of fajitas I had ordered for Larry Joe.
My hungry husband smiled when he came in the back door and heard the fajitas sizzling in a cast iron skillet as I reheated them for his dinner. He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.
“I’ve been slaving over a hot stove for minutes,” I said. “We’re just about ready to eat if you wouldn’t mind pouring us some iced tea.”
We took our plates to the table. After a few wordless minutes of chowing down, Larry Joe raised his head from the trough.
“Hey, Liv,” he said waving his fork in my direction. “I was concerned after you told me Winette thought Rankin might not be on the up-and-up. I think she may be on to something. I ate lunch at the country club today and talked to three different golfing buddies who had invested in the new development.
“One of them gave me this,” Larry Joe said, pulling a glossy, full-color brochure about the development out of his back pocket.
I leafed through the brochure before dropping it into my purse, which was sitting on the kitchen floor. On the back cover was a photo of a smiling Aaron Rankin.
“All three of them told me they had also invested in some rental properties Rankin owns in East Tennessee. He’s apparently a smooth talker. Rankin told them that it will be a while before they see a return on their investment in the Dixie project because of sales and construction timelines, but that they could start lining their pockets in the meantime if they wanted in on this other deal. He told each of them to keep it under their hats because he only had a couple of openings left and made them think he was making the offer to them special. It’s obvious he had at least three of those ‘couple of openings,’ and my guess is there were several more.”
“So did they tell you any details about this rental property deal?”
“The way Jeb, who’s probably the brightest of the three, explained it, Rankin’s investment firm oversees these tenants-in-common securities where the investors collectively own a piece of the real estate and receive a portion of the rental income from the property. Only so far they’ve received a bunch of reports and very little money, from what I gathered.”
“That doesn’t sound quite right,” I said.
“That’s what I thought. So Jeb mentioned the name of the investment company for the rental property—it’s different from the name of the company putting together the Dixie development. I gave the sheriff a call this afternoon and told him what I’d heard. He said it sounded fishy to him and he was going to check into it. I told him I’d appreciate it, because we don’t want good people getting cheated out of their savings.”
“What about bad people?” I said.
“Are you talking about Bubba?”
“Yeah. I’m thinking if the developer is dipping his hand in other people’s pockets and the late councilman found out about it, Rankin might have decided to shut Bubba up permanently.”
Larry Joe said he was going upstairs to work for a bit on the bathroom. Honestly, I have no idea how someone can put so much time in on something and have so little to show for it. But since his virtues far outweigh his shortcomings, I try not to complain too much.
“So is Di coming by?” he asked, pausing in the doorway.
“This is her yoga class night, so she might drop by after.”
* * *
I was clearing away the dishes when my cell phone buzzed. Without as much as a hello, Di said, “I just heard some news about the case I think you’ll be interested in.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Not on the phone. I’m just leaving my yoga class. Can I stop by?”
“Of course.”
In a few minutes, Di knocked, then slipped into the kitchen through the door from the garage.
“Wine, rum?” I offered, trying to be a good hostess.
“Thanks. I’ll have a rum and Coke.”
I poured one for Di and one for myself, mine light on the rum.
“Okay, spill it. I’m dying to hear. What did Dave have to say?”
“I didn’t hear it from Dave. He’s being all tightlipped. You know how he gets. Anyway, I was chatting up Ted and Daisy after class.”
“Are they still cozy?”
“Oh, good grief, they’re sickening. But that’s another story. Anyway, it worked to my advantage because I think Ted likes showing off in front of Daisy. So when I asked casually about the case and tried to pretend like I knew more than I did, he volunteered some interesting information.
“They got back the lab and toxicology reports. Ted said they weren’t really expecting anything unusual there since Bubba was shot, not poisoned. But, here’s the thing. Bubba had ingested a heavy dose of some laxative.”
“This sounds important, somehow, but I’m not sure what it means,” I said.
“It would appear that somebody wanted to ensure that Bubba would be making a trip to the porta john, which, not coincidentally, is where he was shot.”
“Yes! And it also means whoe
ver gave him the laxative is either the killer or an accomplice,” I said.
“Even better,” Di said, “it seems unlikely to me that Earl Daniels would have had an opportunity to slip a laxative into Bubba’s food or drink,” Di said, raising her glass and chinking it against mine.
Suddenly my mind was teeming with suspects and possibilities.
“Bubba could have eaten junk food from any number of vendors, but several of those weren’t even locals and the chance of Bubba walking up and buying their food would seem a bit random. So the most likely sources, it would seem to me, would be either the Coca-Cola and not so secret whiskey cart or the winners’ dinner,” I said.
“Do you remember which guys were standing around the Coke stand with Bubba?”
I closed my eyes for a moment trying to remember the scene. To my best recollection, it was a come-and-go affair, with various men at different times.
“You know, I think the whiskey and Coke cart was a serve-yourself setup, with guys helping themselves to a splash of whiskey under the counter. My thought is the dinner is a more likely spot. Billy Tucker and his Grills on Wheels crew prepared the barbecue and it was buffet style with folks serving themselves. So I don’t know how that could have worked, as far as slipping a laxative to just one person.” I said. “And I think we would have heard if there’d been an outbreak of diarrhea.”
“Right,” Di said, suddenly wide eyed with excitement. “But remember earlier, when you were walking through the park trying to remember events from the day of the festival, what was it you said about when you went in the tent? They were serving dessert? Who was it that delivered Bubba’s plate to him?”
“I saw Bernice Halford set a huge slice of her award-winning chocolate cake down on the table in front of Bubba. And come to think of it, I don’t think I saw her fetching cake for anybody else. There was a crew of high school girls doing the serving. That does seem a little curious, doesn’t it?”
