“Got it.” Try harder to be nice.
That would be a struggle.
The clouds hung low, and a chill hovered in the air, an appropriate dismal atmosphere for Tara Fullerton’s funeral.
I slipped inside the Fountain & Son Funeral Home and took a seat on the far-left side in the middle, where I could see the front and back of the crowd. A few people, probably family, sat near the front. Instead of a casket, an urn stood on a table surrounded by pink roses and a picture of Tara.
I caught Detective Perkins’s eye, and he nodded. Was he hoping the murderer would show up?
Bobbi Sue gave a subtle wave in my direction, and my cousin J.T. stood in the back. Wait. What was he doing here? Our eyes met, and he shrank against the wall. Before I could get up and go talk to him, the pastor began speaking.
“Tara Rianne Fullerton was born on August 13, 1992, to Deborah Fullerton, who preceded her in death.” The pastor continued reading the same obituary that I’d read online. Why did he think this would be a good way to start the service?
Tara—like all of us—was more than a list of vital statistics. She’d laughed. Loved. Cried. Wasn’t there a funny story he could’ve started with? My family’d had plenty of anecdotes to share at Daddy’s funeral. If Tara’s mom had been alive, surely, she would’ve protested. I’d never interacted with her much, but I knew she’d adored her daughter.
My throat thickened.
When the pastor was done talking, a man who appeared to be about twenty-five stepped up front, cleared his throat, and ran his hand over his shaved head.
“Hi. I’m Nick—Tara’s cousin.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Even though I hate public speaking, I couldn’t sit back and not tell people how much Tara meant to me.” He shifted and scrolled through his phone. “I had to write down a few notes.” He held up the phone, and the crowd chuckled sympathetically.
I stole a glance at Detective Perkins, who was gazing at Nick intently. Would Nick know why Tara had wanted to see me?
“If there was anything that Tara would want you to know, it’d be that she’d changed,” Nick said. “About a year ago, Tara started going to church with Mom and me. About a month after that, she told me she’d asked Jesus to forgive her and to fix the mess she’d made of her life.”
Tears sprung into my eyes, and I said a silent prayer of thanks that Tara was in Heaven.
“Tara was no angel.”
The crowd laughed again, and in the front row, a frail young woman with dishwater-blond hair jerked as if she’d been asleep. She glanced around, and when I met her eyes, she turned away.
“But Jesus made a huge difference in Tara’s life,” Nick said. “She was more peaceful—and a lot gentler. She’d want you to know that Jesus can change you, like he changed her.” He bowed his head and grasped the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath and continued with a few entertaining stories.
When he finished, the sleepy woman made her way to the front and clung to the podium. She pushed her hair back from her flushed face. “I’m Morgan Hopewood. Tara’s best friend.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and continued. “We’ve been friends since middle school and even went to culinary school together. She was the most loyal friend I’ve ever had and—” She pressed a fist to her mouth and scratched her arm as if she could dig out the sorrow. “I’m so sorry. I can’t do this.” Morgan ducked her head, slinked away, and melted into her seat.
The pastor hurried to the front and gave a short message.
As soon as the service was over, I tried to make a beeline for J.T., but the crowd blocked me, and by the time I made it outside to the sidewalk, his truck was zooming down Pearl Street.
Weird. I’d definitely call him later.
Tara’s friends and family streamed out of the brick building while I kept my distance from Detective Perkins, who was also surveying the crowd. I searched for Morgan Hopewood, but she’d disappeared. When I made eye contact with Nick, he strolled over and extended his hand. His grasp was firm, and his gray eyes were kind, but sad.
“Nick Vogler.”
“Georgia. You did a great job speaking.”
“Thanks. How’d you know Tara?”
“I gave her piano lessons when she was in fifth grade.” I glanced at the thinning crowd and lowered my voice. “I was also the one who found her…”
He blinked and loosened his tie. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. She didn’t deserve such an awful fate.” I clutched my purse handle.
Nick whipped off the tie and shoved it in his suit pocket. “I keep wracking my brain trying to figure out who would’ve done this to her.”
I said a silent prayer of thanks for the opening. “Any ideas?”
“I can’t picture Tara hunting at all, but she recently decided to pick up a new hobby to impress her boyfriend.” Nick nodded to his left. “Mike’s the guy with the beard and the red flannel shirt.”
Flannel. At a funeral.
Mike stood with an older couple, which I pegged as his parents because the man also wore a blue flannel shirt, and Mike had clearly inherited the bump in his nose from the woman. He hadn’t been mentioned in the obituary, though I recognized him from Tara’s social media posts. “How long had they been dating?”
“A little over a year.”
“What’s his last name?” I just wanted to make sure I had it right.
“Dunson. I told Tara she should get rid of him because of his criminal record, but she didn’t listen.” Nick grimaced. “I’ll never get over the fact that our last conversation was a fight over her refusing to dump Mike.”
“What kind of record?” At that moment, Mike turned and met my eyes. His expression darkened, and he stepped closer.
Nick glanced over my shoulder and lowered his voice. “He got caught hacking some teachers’ email accounts when he was a senior in high school. Tara insisted he’d been young and stupid but had changed.”
“Did he serve time?”
“No. He paid a fine, and the school expelled him. He wasn’t able to graduate.”
I bit my lip. I could see why Tara was willing to give him a chance. It wasn’t like hacking was a violent crime. “How’d they meet?”
“Tara worked at his restaurant while she was going to culinary school.”
“Did Tara ever mention Mike hurting her?” I glanced over Nick’s shoulder and saw Detective Perkins edging closer, and Mike had inched within hearing distance. I’d better wrap this up fast.
“No.” Nick furrowed his brow. “Are you a detective?”
Detective Perkins raised his eyebrows.
I shifted. “No. I’m just nosy and want to help figure out who did this. Sorry.” Just then, a dark-haired woman stepped between the detective and me and asked him a question.
God bless her.
“Don’t be. If nosy figures out what happened to Tara, then I’m all for it.” Nick fished a silver holder from his pocket and dealt a business card to me. “Call if you have any more questions.”
I studied the information as Nick meandered toward Mike and his parents. Nick was the network administrator for the Wells Corporation in Richardville.
Before I could slip away, Detective Perkins caught up with me in the parking lot. “Should I call you Detective Winston?”
His tone indicated he meant it as a joke, but I wasn’t in the mood for lightheartedness.
“Nick came over to talk to me. I was just asking a few questions.” Mike stared at us, and I turned my back to avoid his smoldering glare.
“Must’ve been good ones if he thought you were a detective instead of a farmer.”
“Farmers can’t ask good questions?” I shoved my hands in my coat pockets.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Have you talked to Mike Dunson?” I lowered my voice. “Because Tara’s cousin seems to think Mike might’ve killed Tara.” Mike’s gaze alone was enough to hospitalize someone.
“Please t
rust us to handle this.” Detective Perkins rested his hand on my arm.
I looked him straight in his gorgeous blue eyes and thought of how sincere he’d seemed when he told me he’d look at Daddy’s case. The last thing I wanted to do was make him mad and cause him not to prioritize that investigation. Besides, Mike was creeping me out. “Okay. I’ll try.”
But everything I’d learned wouldn’t make it easy.
Chapter Six
When I left the funeral, I decided the best course of action was to talk to J.T.—in person. I wouldn’t give him a chance to dodge my phone call. J.T. worked at Wildcat Springs Implement, and part of his responsibilities included selling farm equipment. Though Grandpa and I weren’t in need of a combine, tractor, or planter, I was in the market for a new lawn mower, so I drove to the dealership that was located outside of Wildcat Springs in the middle of a field.
J.T.’d get me a good deal and give me some answers as to why he was at Tara’s funeral. I entered the showroom, and the smell of motor oil mingled with popcorn lingered in the air. Several models of lawnmowers were displayed in the large showroom, and a row of offices lined the wall on the left. J.T. sat in the office behind the third window, and he was talking on the phone.
“Hey, Georgia!” Max Jenkins, the owner and former Wildcat Springs High School football legend, ambled out of his office. “What can I do for you?” He jingled the change in his pocket and flashed a toothy grin.
I pointed to a zero-turn mower. “I could use a new mower and thought you might have some good end-of-the season deals.” My farmhouse, barns, and grain bins sat on five acres, and mowing the lawn took up a lot of time, so I figured I should have equipment that made it enjoyable.
“We’ll fix you right up.” Max glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll send J.T. out when he’s done, since you like to work with him.” He turned to get J.T. and then stopped. “Say, how’s your mom?”
“She and Dan are doing great.”
“Glad to hear it.” Max had taken my mom on a few dates after Daddy died, but the relationship hadn’t blossomed. “I’ve been seeing someone new, and it’s going well.”
“Good for you.” I tried not to appear too interested.
Max pointed to the popcorn machine in the corner. “Help yourself while you’re waiting.”
“Thanks.” Since I hadn’t eaten lunch, I filled a red and white striped bag and started munching while I studied the photos of the old tractors hanging on the walls. I was sure glad I was farming in the modern era with my air-conditioned cabs and autosteer.
“I had a feeling I’d see you today.”
I whirled around and faced J.T. “That’s funny. I don’t remember mentioning I need a new mower.”
He crossed his arms. “Do you need a mower, or are you here to find out why I was at Tara’s funeral?”
He knew me well. “Both.” I tossed more popcorn in my mouth.
“Which one were you looking at?”
I swallowed. “Zero turn.”
“Come on back, and I’ll get you some information.”
We entered his office, and he motioned toward the chair in front of his desk. “Can I get you something to drink? We have Coke products and water.”
“A Coke would be great.” Someone had gotten carried away when putting butter and salt on the popcorn.
He handed me a few lawn mower brochures from the display rack on the wall. “Take a look at these, and I’ll be right back.”
Even though I was a customer, J.T. was family, and he was being strangely formal. So he knew Tara well enough to go to her funeral. Lots of people did.
“Here you go.” He thrust the Coke can at me and closed the door.
I cracked the can open. “Why are you being weird?”
“Why are you being nosy?” He narrowed his eyes.
“I had no idea you and Tara were friends.” I sipped the Coke.
“Well, we were. Back in high school.” He leaned against his desk, picked up a toy tractor on his desk, and spun a wheel. “She was in the color guard when I was in marching band.” He put the tractor back, walked around his desk, and sat. “I haven’t always had the best luck with girls, and Tara made me feel special.”
I understood having bad luck with the opposite sex. “I’m sorry you lost a friend.” Had they been more than friends? I wanted to ask so badly but remembered Life Lesson #27: Always mind your own business. I wasn’t so good at adhering to that precept. Still, J.T.’s behavior made the answer obvious, which staved off the temptation to nose around.
“Thanks.” He stared out the window at the row of tractors lined up in the lot next to the building. “Tara always knew how to make me laugh.”
“That’s a great quality.” If I couldn’t laugh with Brandi and Ashley, I’d go crazy, though they’d probably say that my antics entertained them more than anything they ever did to amuse me. “Were you in contact with Tara recently?”
“No. We hadn’t talked in several years.” He tugged at the collar on his gray polo shirt, which had the Wildcat Spring Implement logo embroidered on it. “Why?”
I told him about the letter and what I’d learned from Bobbi Sue.
“Wow.” J.T. blew out a breath and rested his head in his hands, his man bun bobbing slightly.
How did Max feel about J.T.’s new hairstyle? Did he worry about it being a turn off to the more conservative customers? Maybe not since J.T. was a great salesman—second only to Max. J.T.’d even earned a cruise last year.
The silence jumped into awkward territory, and I fidgeted with the fringe that lined the hem of my sweater. J.T. had always been sensitive, so I should probably back off. “I can come back another day.”
He snapped his head up. “Nope. I’m fine.” He turned his chair toward the computer. “Let’s see what kind of deal I can get you on that mower.”
Wednesday afternoon, I worked in my office, trying to catch up managing our farm budget since the fields were too wet to shell corn. Instead of accounting, I kept thinking about Tara Fullerton and the family and friends she’d left behind. I knew what it felt like to have unanswered questions.
Finding Tara’s body and receiving the note involved me—whether I liked it or not. I tapped my pen against the desk and tried to remember my vow to stay away because letting Detective Perkins handle everything was the wisest choice.
Besides, I hadn’t been able to figure out what had happened to Daddy. What made me think I could help with Tara’s case?
I considered the facts I’d already learned about Tara. Maybe there was a small lead I could follow up on. Speak with one of Tara’s friends. Her friend Morgan Hopewood would be a good person to talk to, but her behavior at the funeral disturbed me.
Wait a second.
I turned to my computer and typed the words symptoms of opioid high into a search engine because, unfortunately, opioid abuse was becoming more and more prevalent. Last year the number of overdose deaths in Richard County had doubled.
I surveyed the results. Flushed, itchy skin, sleepiness, fixed pupils. Morgan hit several indicators, though I hadn’t gotten close enough to see her pupils.
Did she have an addiction problem, or had she overmedicated to deal with the pain of losing a friend?
I drummed my finger against my desk and thought of a different option. Tara had posted on social media about working out at Fitness Universe in Richardville, and the gym wasn’t that far away. Before I could change my mind, I hurried to get my shoes and keys.
When I arrived twenty minutes later, Fitness Universe’s parking lot only had a few cars, which wasn’t surprising since it was the middle of the afternoon. I put up the hood on my sweatshirt and sprinted through the rain. At the front desk, a middle-aged woman waited with a companion—her cleavage.
“May I help you?”
I smiled. “Did you know Tara Fullerton?”
“Yes.” The woman’s eyes clouded. “You with the police?”
“No. I’m doing a private investigation in
to her death.” That was a stretch, but I wasn’t sure what else to say.
“You a real PI?”
“N—”
“I’ve always wanted to meet a PI. Do you go on lots of stakeouts?”
“I—”
“Have you ever caught a man cheating on his wife? I thought about hiring a PI when I thought my husband was having an affair. I used the money for a boob job instead.”
I choked back a laugh. “Did it work?”
She frowned and pointed to her friends. “The boob job? Sure it did. I hired a good surgeon.”
“I mean—”
“Oh, right. Did I hang onto my husband?” She beamed, glanced down at her chest, and shimmied her shoulders. “Did the trick.”
I cleared my throat. “I’m glad. Now, about Tara.”
“Real shame.” The woman shook her head. “I’m Susan, by the way.”
“Georgia.”
She nodded. “Tara used to come here almost every day. She was a sweetheart. I can’t think of why anyone would’ve wanted to kill her.”
“Are any of her friends here now?”
“Let me check.” She leaned over, and her nails clicked against the keyboard. “Kevin Doyle’s here. He’s one tough guy. Spent several years in the army disposing of explosives.” She shook her head as she turned the monitor so I could see his profile picture.
Kevin had been at the funeral.
“He’s probably lifting,” Susan said. “Go on in. Normally, we don’t admit non-members, but since you’re an investigator…”
“Thank you, Susan.”
I pushed through the door into the exercise area and wrinkled my nose at the odor of sweat and rubber. It was also about fifteen degrees colder. Threading my way through treadmills and weight machines, I zeroed in on Kevin, who was bench pressing with a spotter. I hovered next to a leg curl machine until he finished with a grunt.
“Kevin Doyle?”
Deadly Harvest Page 5
