Deadly Harvest

by Marissa Shrock

  “What was Tara like?”

  Beverly looked out the window and stroked Miss Peacock’s head. I followed her gaze. One tree still had leaves—a stubborn hold out. “Tara was sweet to me, but she wasn’t always respectful to her mama, and it didn’t help her dad was never in the picture. If she’d have been my daughter, I’d have jerked a knot in her tail.”

  I grinned. Beverly’s bluntness was one of the reasons I loved her. “Had you seen Tara recently?”

  “She came to see me a few weeks ago. Told me she’d found Jesus. Seems she was having boy trouble and needed advice. Ever since her mama died, Tara didn’t have many people to confide in.”

  “What was wrong?”

  Beverly hesitated and fiddled with her blanket but took a deep breath and continued. “She’d met a new fellow and wasn’t sure how to break it off with her current beau without making him angry.”

  “And the current beau was Mike Dunson?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Did she happen to call the new boyfriend Sharkie?”

  Beverly squinted at the ceiling. “She didn’t call him anything.”

  Of course not. “Was Tara afraid for her life?”

  “I didn’t think so at the time.”

  “Did you tell Cal?”

  “Soon as I heard her death was ruled a homicide, this old brain started chugging away, so I called him.” Beverly’s eyes gleamed. “I see you’re on a first name basis with him.”

  “We may or may not have gone to lunch after church yesterday.” I winked.

  “Praise the Lord!” When Beverly raised her hands, Miss Peacock shot off her lap, and attacked my leg again. “Down, Miss Peacock!”

  The dog obeyed and went to sit at Beverly’s feet as my phone started vibrating. I was going to ignore it, but Beverly motioned for me to go ahead.

  “Hello?”

  “Georgia? It’s J.T.”

  “What’s up?”

  “About an hour ago, Detective Perkins came into the store and questioned me about Tara Fullerton’s death.”

  I blinked a few times as I ran my hand over Beverly’s couch. “Why?”

  “Because I was with Tara the morning she died.”

  Chapter Twelve

  An hour later, armed with two turkey club sandwiches, a large order of homemade potato chips, and two raspberry iced teas from Velda’s Café, I located an empty—and isolated—picnic table in the sun near the grove of trees that surrounded the backside of Sycamore Park and waited for J.T. to arrive. Before ending our phone call, I’d promised to meet him and bring him lunch. Though my voice had been strained, my offer had sounded far more gracious than I was feeling now that the shock had worn off and allowed me time to stew.

  Swiping crunchy leaves from the faded red table and bench, I fumed. J.T. had lied about his relationship with Tara.

  Whatever his reasons, I would get to the bottom of this. I sat at the table and waited.

  Since the school was on fall break, a few kids played on the swings, monkey bars, and slides a short distance from where I’d camped out. The public pool was closed for the season, and it managed to look downright lonely with a padlocked gate, stacked chairs, and a cover.

  “Hey, cuz.” There was no mistaking the defeat in J.T.’s voice as he lumbered up to me.

  I motioned to the seat across from me. “Sit.” I couldn’t mask the irritation in my tone.

  He obeyed and met my gaze. “I didn’t hurt Tara,” he whispered and scrubbed his hands over his face. “She was alive—and safe—when I left.”

  “So you’re a suspect?”

  He swallowed. “Yeah. I think so.”

  Obviously, Cal didn’t have enough to arrest J.T., or he would’ve. Still, Cal had been on a fishing expedition to see what he could get on my cousin. Pushing that thought aside, I folded my hands and rested them on the paint-chipped wood. “If you were with Tara the morning she died, then you lied to me about your relationship with her.” My head pounded with multiple cuss words that begged for release. “Why?”

  “We’d started hanging out again and decided to go hunting because I’d mentioned I hadn’t been for years.”

  Now I knew why Tara had been on my land without permission. J.T. had a standing invitation to use my woods—and Daddy’s old tree stand. “Doesn’t explain the lie.” I pressed my lips together.

  “I’m getting there. That morning I told her I wanted to be exclusive. That’s when she told me about her boyfriend Mike and that she wanted to stay with him because she thought he was close to accepting Christ. Tara was afraid if she broke up with him, he’d stop going to church and forget about God.” He sighed. “It sounded like a lame excuse to get rid of me.”

  Cheating on your boyfriend but staying with him so he’ll get saved. That’s a good one. But Tara had been a new Christian, so maybe I was being too hard on her. “And you had this little define-the-relationship-chat-turned-argument while you were hunting?”

  “Yes. I was an idiot for ever thinking we could be more than friends.” He covered his face with his hands. “After we argued, I needed to get away and cool off—besides I had to work.”

  “How’d you get home?”

  “I walked.”

  J.T. lived about a mile and a half from the scene. “Did you see any strange vehicles parked where they shouldn’t have been?”

  He set his jaw. “No.”

  “Anyone on the Wildcat Trail?”

  “I couldn’t see from the stand, so I have no idea. Probably.” He frowned. “And when I left, I walked in the opposite direction of the trail.”

  “Right.” Since he lived that way it made sense.

  He fixed his gaze on a squirrel scampering up a tree. “I know it looks bad.”

  “No kidding, Sharkie.” I rolled my eyes. “Don’t you think you should’ve called a lawyer before you talked to Detective Perkins? Are you trying to go to prison?”

  “Detective Perkins came into the store and took me by surprise.” He squeezed his hands together. “I didn’t want to make a scene, and if I got a lawyer, I’d look guilty. I didn’t have anything to hide.”

  I sighed and massaged my temples before meeting his gaze. “I’m sorry you lost Tara—and that this is happening.” He nodded, and I slid his turkey sandwich across the table, opened the bag of chips, and positioned it between us. “What do they have on you?”

  “Text messages that show we planned to hunt that morning. My prints are all over her crossbow because I carried it for her. And obviously, I don’t have an alibi.”

  “Anything else?” I crunched down on a potato chip that contained a hint of garlic mingled with the salt.

  “Well, they think I could’ve hacked your yield monitor.”

  “And make yourself look guiltier? Yeah, that makes sense.”

  He shook his head and compressed his lips. “That’s what I thought, but I didn’t say that to Detective Perkins.” He gazed over my shoulder for a second before he picked up his sandwich and took a bite.

  God had clearly blessed my cousin with more self-control than he’d seen fit to give me. While I ate, I thought back over everything I’d observed at the scene, and the locked car came to mind because it bugged me. If Tara’s car had a keypad, then locking her keys in the car wouldn’t have been a big deal, but it didn’t.

  “Did Tara realize she’d locked her keys in her car that morning?”

  J.T. frowned. “What?” He put down his sandwich. “No. In fact, she said she was going to leave the car unlocked and her keys in the ignition because she knew the car would be safe back where we parked.”

  “You had an actual conversation about it?”

  “Yeah.” He tilted his head. “Why?”

  “When Grandpa and I found Tara’s car, the doors were all locked.”

  “Neither one of us did it. We double checked before we left.” He took a drink of tea. “Somebody came along and locked the doors? Why?”

  “Could Tara have had something in her car th
at the killer wanted?”

  “And after taking it, the killer accidentally locked the doors out of habit.”

  “Right. Do you remember seeing anything unusual in the car?”

  J.T. closed his eyes, and a moment later opened them. “No. But that doesn’t mean anything. I was nervous about asking her to be exclusive.”

  Another possibility came to mind. “What if someone planted something in Tara’s car? Did Detective Perkins mention anything they found?”

  “No.” J.T. looked older than his twenty-six years, which is not something I would’ve said about him two weeks ago.

  We ate in silence, the only sounds coming from passing cars and the giggles and shouts of playing kiddos. “I’m going to talk to Detective Perkins and see what I can find out.”

  “Thanks.” He walked to the trash barrel, tossed his sandwich wrapper inside, and returned to our table as the sun ducked behind a cloud, the shadow darkening our table.

  “Why’d Tara call you Sharkie?”

  J.T. picked a paint chip from the table. “Back in my marching band days, we’d play cards to pass the time on bus trips. I was good at all of them except Euchre, which Tara loved. She took to calling me Sharkie—like a card shark—because I could never remember the rules.” He flicked the paint chip into the grass. “It sounds cruel, but she didn’t mean it that way.” He blinked as if he were trying to keep tears away.

  “Did you have a nickname for her?”

  “T-Full.” He shrugged. “Not super creative, but she never minded.”

  I wadded up my sandwich wrapper and the empty potato chip bag and clutched them. There was one thing more I had to know. “Why’d you lie to me about your relationship with Tara?” This time, the anger had left my voice.

  He fiddled with his shirt collar. “I’m embarrassed that she’d been seeing another guy the whole time I was pursuing her. But mostly, I felt guilty for leaving her alone. If I’d been there to protect her, she’d still be alive.”

  I nodded as goosebumps rose on my arms. “Or you might be dead too.”

  As soon as J.T. left for work, I drove straight to the sheriff’s department to see Cal.

  “Is Detective Perkins available?” I asked the receptionist after she’d given me the once over.

  She chuckled and flipped her bangs out of her eyes. She picked up her phone. “Georgia Winston, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She sniffed as she pressed in Cal’s extension. “Georgia Winston’s here to see you.” She listened for a second before replacing the phone in its cradle. “He’ll be out in a few.”

  “That’s a cute top.” I pointed to her blouse with flowing sleeves. “Purple’s your color.”

  “Thanks.” She shot a fake, half smile in my direction.

  So much for trying to be Nice Georgia. When would I ever learn it never worked?

  A few minutes later, I heard someone whistling “Stayin’ Alive,” and Cal opened the door. “Come on back.” As I passed, he whispered, “You look gorgeous.”

  “Thanks.” When I couldn’t manage to return his smile, his friendly expression faded.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Is there some place we could speak in private?”

  “No problem.” He turned left and led me down a narrow hallway, opened a door, and stood aside so I could enter the room, which held a desk with a chair and two additional chairs that faced each other. An observation mirror dominated the opposite wall.

  “I should’ve expected an interrogation room when I asked for privacy.”

  He chuckled and indicated that I should sit, so I did.

  “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

  “J.T. Simms is my cousin.” My statement hung in the air, and the interrogation room seemed to shrink, squeezing the air out of my chest.

  Cal nodded slowly, and I couldn’t read his expression. “I see,” he said.

  “There’s no way he killed Tara Fullerton. He’s one of the kindest people I know.” I clutched my purse handle. “When his mom had a car accident a few years ago, he and my uncle took turns staying with her in the hospital. They never left her side, and Aunt Janie swears J.T. took such good care of her, he could’ve been a nurse.” J.T.’d never speak to me again if he knew I was spouting off about his tenderhearted side, but he’d have to get over it because this was a desperate situation.

  “I’ve just been following the evidence in this investigation.” Cal looked away.

  “Okay. Well, I have a question about that.” I dropped my purse on the floor. “Why would J.T. hack my yield monitor and then hand you the evidence?”

  Cal shook his head. “You’d be surprised what people think they can get away with. Besides, when he showed up, I was there. It would’ve looked suspicious if he hadn’t cooperated.”

  “What about Mike Dunson? He could’ve hacked my yield monitor.”

  Cal swiped his hand over his mouth and chin. “I hate this, but I have to go with what the evidence is showing, and right now it points to J.T.—not Mike Dunson.”

  “Then there’s something you missed.” There had to be. J.T. wouldn’t threaten me. He wouldn’t have hurt Tara. “Did you ever follow up with the regulars who use the Wildcat Trail?”

  “No one remembers seeing anyone new that morning. I’m sorry.” Sincerity filled his tone.

  “What about motive?” I folded my arms.

  “I’m not done digging, but J.T.’s already admitted they fought about Mike the morning Tara died.”

  “J.T. should’ve had a lawyer present when you talked to him.”

  Cal crossed his arms. “Your cousin wasn’t under arrest when I spoke with him, which I have the right to do.” His blue eyes grew cold.

  “It feels like you tricked him into talking.”

  He stood and turned away from me. “What if you’re wrong, Georgia?” He faced me and leaned against the chair back. “Are you sure you know J.T. as well as you think you do?”

  Pressing my fist to my mouth, I considered Cal’s argument. There was a major piece that didn’t fit with the man I knew. “Fine. Let’s say you’re right and J.T. pushed Tara off the stand in the heat of the moment—either accidentally or on purpose. If the fall had caused her death, I’d be inclined to agree with you.” I leaned forward. “But here’s what I don’t buy. Instead of J.T. calling for help, he suffocated her?” I shook my head. “J.T.’s not that kind of man. Besides, someone else was at the scene. After I found Tara, I looked at her car, and all the doors were locked. J.T. told me they left them unlocked because the keys were in the ignition.” I stood and picked up my purse. “You’ve got the wrong guy, and meanwhile, there’s a murderer running free.”

  Cal pressed his lips together, as if he wanted to say more but decided against it and opened the door. We walked the narrow hall in silence, and when we arrived at the exit to the waiting room, he rested his hand on my shoulder and sympathy filled his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I think we should cancel our date on Saturday.”

  “I understand.” The cynical edge in those two simple words of agreement speared my heart.

  Cal turned to go but then faced me. “Take care, Georgia. I’ll be in touch about your dad’s case.”

  As I watched him walk away, I thought about Life Lesson #6: When it comes to men, never get your hopes up.

  Ever.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A few years ago, I’d gotten a decorating burr under my tail and had spent a ridiculous amount of time online looking for ideas to improve my farmhouse. I’d decided that a chalkboard painted on my dining room wall would be cool, so I’d made a trip to Mitchell’s Hardware in Wildcat Springs and asked for the special paint. Harry, the grizzled man who ran the place, had guffawed himself into a coughing fit, spat into his hanky, and said, “I don’t sell that newfangled stuff here.”

  Undeterred, but fuming at the people who pontificated on the necessity of shopping local, I’d driven to Richardville, purchased the paint, and created
a plain black rectangle on the light blue wall above the sideboard in my dining room. I’d found some narrow pieces of reclaimed wood and trimmed the chalkboard out, but because I don’t have an artistic cell in my body, this little production was about as crafty as I got. Every so often, Ashley would draw a picture to spruce up the board.

  Her latest creation was a Pomeranian, which was her way of reminding me that I needed a pet. Since she’d drawn the dog in the corner, I had a large blank area that I could use for my murder investigation board. After my encounter with Cal, I needed to keep my mind occupied, so I stood in front of the wall in my dining room with a piece of chalk in hand and bit my lip. I had to solve this case to help my cousin. Where should I start?

  A timeline.

  I drew a line across the board, and on the left end, I put a vertical mark and noted Tara’s approximate time of death and the time I’d discovered her body. On the wood frame, I tacked up printed social media pictures of Tara and the people I’d interviewed: Nick Vogler, Mike Dunson, Kevin Doyle, and Pam Marconi. Under each person’s name, I wrote the facts I’d learned. Then, I added Morgan Hopewood’s picture because I wanted to talk to her.

  When I finished, I dropped the chalk in the basket on the sideboard, surveyed my results—and decided it was time to follow up with Nick Vogler.

  After I found his card in my handbag, I leaned against the dining room table and hoped I could leave a message, but he answered. I reminded him who I was and how we’d met.

  He remembered.

  “May I ask a few more questions?” I asked.

  “Not unless you let me buy you dinner.”

  I gripped the edge of the table. That was not what I’d had in mind, but it might yield better results. “When?”

  “How about tomorrow night?”

  “Sure.” At least it was a weeknight deal, so he wasn’t taking it too seriously.

  We arranged a time and place, and when I hung up, I squeezed my eyes shut. I needed to talk to my girls, so I pulled out my phone and sent an SOS text to Brandi and Ashley.