The Elder_Mississippi Kings

by Celia Aaron

  I closed the door behind me.

  “You didn’t have to do that. Logan would probably love to hear me go over all your fuckups of the past forty-eight hours.”

  Sitting, I crossed my legs at the knee and waited for the onslaught.

  “How the hell did you manage to let someone burn down the law firm right under your nose? All that evidence, gone, with no way to retrieve it.”

  I wanted to argue my case, to tell him there was no way to stop the fire unless I was clairvoyant, but when he got a head of steam like this, it was better to let him go.

  “And that.” He pointed to my temple. “How the hell did you get hurt?”

  “Just a scratch.”

  “I asked you a question!” He slammed his meaty palm on his desk, the jolt knocking over a photo of him and Lina. “Damnit.” With a gentle touch, he sat it back upright.

  “The shooter at Judge Ingles’ place. He aimed for me, missed, but I got a piece of wood from the doorframe right here.” I tapped the spot where Benton had removed the splinter. “Not a big deal.”

  “You almost dying from a bullet to the head is a very big deal!” He leaned forward, his arms on the top of his desk, pushing into his unused keyboard. “What about Vivi? And May Bell?” His gaze travelled back to the photo of he and Lina—she was holding a trophy from when she won the high school 4H competition. “I’m already losing Lina…” He sat back, a deep sigh escaping from him as he rubbed the heels of his palm into his eyes.

  “I’m being careful, Chief.” I kept my voice low, trying to placate him before he got worked up again. “As careful as I can be. But I have to find this guy. There’s something bigger going on here, something I’m only seeing bits and pieces of. I need more of the puzzle to surface before I’ll know what it is. But I’m working on it.”

  “I know you are, but this deal with Judge Ingles fleeing town, the fire, the deaths—the phone’s been ringing off the hook, and people want answers. Mayor Baker wants to talk to you, so does that jumped-up DA. I told them both to pound sand. We’ll call them if we need two more bumbling idiots gumming up the works. Helen’s been fielding calls from media outlets over in Columbus and all the way up to Tupelo. This sort of thing doesn’t belong in Azalea. And each second that ticks by is a second lost. You need to get this case solved before it goes any colder.”

  His constant berating began to wear thin, cutting through the layers of armor I’d built over the years—layers already weakened from too little sleep and not enough food.

  “Chief, I’m doing everything I can. Maybe if you hadn’t sent me out to the edge of town to investigate okra theft, I would have—”

  “Don’t give me that shit, Arabella. You need to do your job. All of your job, or I’ll find someone else who will.”

  The armor cracked. “Bullshit! There’s no one who would do this job with its shit pay and you constantly breathing down their neck. I’m beginning to think I was the only one dumb enough to accept the position.”

  He smirked. “Sounds about right.” Some of the tension left him, and he leaned back in his chair. “You were definitely a fool to take a job working for me.” He sighed again, the sound verging on creaky. “What a fucking mess.” He pinched the bridge of his gin-blossomed nose.

  “I’m going to investigate until it’s solved.” I took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “And on that note, I need to know why you went to see Randall King last week.”

  He opened his eyes, resting his sharp gaze on me. That look was probably the same one he wore when he was a detective like me twenty-five years ago, before the drinking and the sadness started eating away at him. I only hoped that wouldn’t be me in twenty-five more years.

  “Wh-What did you say?” His tone was the thin paper cover around a stick of dynamite.

  “I know you went to his office last week. I want to know why.”

  “Oh, now I’m a suspect? That’s what you call detective work?”

  “Chief, I’m following every lead, just like you taught me.” I pulled out my notebook and pen, clicking it for emphasis. “Why were you there?”

  “Jesus, Arabella.” He shook his head. “You really want to do this?”

  “I have to.”

  He scratched his neck, his beard in need of more than just a trim. Dropping his hand, he went lethally still. “Yeah, I went to see that son of a bitch last week. And I’m glad he’s dead.”

  21

  Benton

  Porter was on all fours, cursing and yanking on the cords that ran from the TV to a dusty VCR one of his deputies found in their evidence room.

  “Where does this cable even go?” he muttered.

  “Do you need me to do this?” Charlotte sniped. “You’ve been trying for all of five minutes, and you’re having a meltdown like it’s been two days.”

  “Anyone want coffee?” I walked into the kitchen to avoid the bickering. Two resounded “yeses” rang out from the living room as the VCR war continued.

  It was late, already close to midnight, but Arabella had called Porter to say she and Logan were coming by with the VHS tape. Did it irk me that she hadn’t called me? No, not at all. I slammed the coffee canister into the Keurig and jabbed the button to start the brew.

  Since she’d dropped me off, I’d given the rundown of what happened to Letty Cline to both Porter and Charlotte. I’d skimmed over the Great Okra Caper. My thoughts continued to stray back to both my father’s death and Arabella. Two incongruous topics that seemed to take up all the free space in my head.

  A sharp rap at the door told me she was here. Charlotte opened it before I could get there and invited Arabella and Logan inside.

  The latter gave my sister a warm smile—too warm. “We’ve only met in passing, I’m afraid. I’m Logan.”

  She took his outstretched hand and shook. “Charlotte.”

  “Nice to meet you.” He smiled.

  She blushed.

  Arabella pinched him in the side, and he hustled into the living room. She turned to me, her expression hopeful. “Do I smell coffee?”

  “Definitely.” She followed me to the kitchen and perched on a stool at the bar as I fixed her a cup.

  “Any news?”

  “Some.” She stripped off her navy jacket, leaving her in the simple white button-down she’d been wearing earlier. No real jewelry, just a simple sort of beauty that shone more than metal ever could.

  “Care to share?” I stirred, then set her cup down in front of her.

  “No, but I guess I will. Did you know that Lina was—how to put this—in a relationship—” she used air quotes,“—with your father?”

  I stopped in the middle of the kitchen and turned to her. “Are you kidding?”

  “Nope, not even a little bit.”

  “Dad and Lina Garvey?” I couldn’t even do the math, but he had to have been 45 years older than her. “No way.”

  “Yes.” She took a sip and wrapped her hands around the mug. “They were together.” Her cheeks colored a little, but I couldn’t tell if it was from the coffee or from what she was trying to imply with as much tact as possible.

  I reset the coffeemaker as her revelation sank in. “That’s who Margaret was talking about? The other woman?”

  She nodded. “I think so. Unless there was someone else I don’t know about.”

  “A third?” I wanted to say that wasn’t possible, but what did I know? Nothing. My father had more secrets than I could have ever guessed at.

  “Seems unlikely, but I can’t be certain. Though, from what Chief Garvey said, Letty had major beef with Lina over Randall. Lina was definitely the reason Letty went on a tear at the law firm that day Margaret told us about.”

  The image of Dad dancing with Lina flashed through my mind, her dress sparkling, his smile pasted on. Or was it? I supposed their cha-cha had a little extra flair, more heat than had been necessary to win the trophy. How had I missed it? I took the cup, added cream and sugar, then plopped down next to her at the bar. “This
is just so…so far-fetched.”

  “I thought so, too. But Chief Garvey found out about it. That’s why he went to see your father last week. Well, let me back up. Chief admitted he threatened Randall when he found out about the relationship about three months ago. He thought Lina and Randall had broken it off after that. But last week, Randall visited Lina at the hospital. When Chief heard about it, he blew a gasket and went to your dad’s office to confront him. It got heated, but he left before it came to blows.”

  “Do you believe him?” I cradled my head in my hands and tried to sift the truth from the lies.

  She paused for a moment, then said, “I do. I mean, I’ve known Garvey for a decade, and he’s been a decent man all that time. He doesn’t fit as the killer.”

  I pictured Garvey in Dad’s office, his service pistol pointed at Dad’s head. My blood ran cold. “I’ve known him a long time, too. But I’ve been wrong before.” It wasn’t lost on me that my father had been fooling me for years. “I think Garvey could have done it. Killed Dad.”

  “I don’t think so.” She took a slow sip. “That’s not to say that he couldn’t have snapped or something, but the way Randall was killed, the safe, and then Letty’s murder the next day. It seems like—”

  “Does he have an alibi?” My mind was firing through all the possibilities of Garvey killing Dad and Letty, then torching the firm.

  “He was in Lina’s room Sunday afternoon, fell asleep there, and hadn’t left yet when we got the call about your dad. I phoned the nurse’s station to make sure. It checks out. He didn’t do it.”

  “Who didn’t do it?” Charlotte had walked up behind us.

  Arabella turned to her. “Suffice it to say, we don’t know who the killer is. But we’re working on it.”

  Charlotte raised a brow. “Work on it in the living room. Porter finally got the VCR on.”

  “I am the golden god of ancient technology!” Porter’s yawp rang through the house.

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. “I swear he’s not related to us.”

  “No such luck.” I rose and followed Charlotte and Arabella back into the living room.

  Logan sat on the couch, his head propped on his hand, his eyelids drooping. We were all at the bottom of our tanks, scraping for a last bit of energy to get us through.

  “What the hell is ‘tracking’?” Porter stared up at the TV from his vantage point on the floor with the VCR.

  Arabella sat next to Logan and offered him her coffee cup. He took it and drank, his lips touching the same spot where hers had just been. An ugly surge of jealousy rocketed through my system, but I turned my attention to the TV in an effort to seem uninterested.

  The video was black and white, grainy, and had a questionable timestamp at the bottom right corner. But the pumps outside of Sal’s were within view for the most part.

  “Fast-forward.” Logan drained the rest of the coffee I’d made for Arabella. “This looks like the morning rush, probably 8 AM or so. The fire happened after noon, so unless our arsonist was an early bird, we need to look later in the day.”

  “Thanks, Logan.” Porter shot him a smartass grin. “We’d never be able to crack this case without your Johnny-on-the-spot instincts and crackerjack wit.”

  “Don’t be a dick, Sheriff.” Logan made clear he didn’t put much stock in the title.

  Porter held up his left hand, his middle finger at attention, while he fast forwarded through a couple hours of tape. I sat next to Arabella, our thighs and arms lightly touching.

  “Hang on.” Charlotte pointed to the screen. “There’s a truck on pump four that’s out of the frame, but it looks like the bed has a bunch of gas cans in it.”

  Porter backed up the tape then pressed play. We all leaned forward, doing our best to ignore the lines running across the screen and the jumpy movement of the images.

  “Yeah, I see it too.” Arabella stood and approached the TV. When she bent over slightly, I was not enough of a gentleman to look away. Neither was Logan, which irritated the hell out of me.

  “There.” She pointed to a figure at the pump. “He’s definitely filling up gas cans. Just let it play. Maybe he’ll show up better in a second.”

  “Of course the asshole that we’re looking for is right outside of the frame. Can’t even get a license plate on the truck. Black and white video, can’t tell what color it is. Horse shit.” Porter leaned back, propping himself on his elbows the same way he did when we were kids watching cartoons. Dressed in a white T-shirt and pajama pants, he’d made himself at home.

  “That’s what? Four containers so far?” Charlotte tapped her finger on her chin. “That has to be the guy. But nothing about him seems familiar. I can’t see his face, but he doesn’t ring any bells—not the way he moves or anything.”

  Arabella asked, “Benton, do you think that could be Winston Morris?”

  Porter made a pffft noise. “That kook would have to leave his shack in the woods to do something like this. No way. He doesn’t have anything to do with the firm anymore, either.”

  Arabella and I exchanged a look. I hadn’t told Porter and Charlotte about the threatening letters. It was part of my sad attempt at “Dad Damage Control.” But even I could see that keeping them in the dark had a limited shelf life.

  We watched for about thirty more seconds, everyone in the room squinting at the screen.

  “That’s it. He’s pulling away,” Porter said. “I can see a license plate, but this piece of shit VHS is way too blurry.” He looked back at Arabella. “Don’t y’all have some CSI shit that can like, enhance it or something?”

  “That’s only on TV.” She shook her head and reclaimed her seat next to me.

  “Oh.” A crestfallen Porter stopped the tape.

  Logan rubbed his eyes again. “I’ll call Sal first thing. Go over it with him again, see if he remembers anything about this guy.”

  “Maybe he paid with a credit card. See if Sal can get us a list of all transactions for that morning.” Arabella let her head fall back on the top of the couch, her eyes closed. “It’s all connected, but I just can’t find the thread that links it all.” She seemed to be talking more to herself than anyone else.

  “Your guy see any movement at the judge’s place out in the country?” Logan asked.

  “Not a thing. The judge went to ground somewhere or left entirely. But if he turns up anywhere in the county, we’ll know. Y’all find anything at Letty’s house?”

  Logan glanced at Arabella. She didn’t open her eyes but seemed to sense his stare. “You can share what we know. Everybody here has skin in the game.”

  “Nothing that amounted to anything. We searched her computer, turned the house upside down, and searched her shop, but nothing seemed out of order. Other than her relationship with Randall King and the judge, we don’t know why she was targeted.”

  “The money. It all goes back to the money,” Arabella mumbled, perhaps to herself.

  “You mean the judge’s money?” Charlotte chewed her thumbnail. “It’s not like Dad was driving around in a Maserati all of a sudden, so I’m not sure what he has to do with whatever dirt Judge Ingles was up to.”

  “Charlotte, you know they were thick as thieves.” I tried to keep the bitter note from my voice. Failed. “Whatever Judge Ingles was into, Dad knew about it.”

  She shook her head. “There’s no reason to believe Dad did anything wrong.”

  My shield began to crumble, the damage control façade fading into vapor. I was still loath to tarnish the version of our father that lived in her memory. She wasn’t a child anymore, but she’d always be the baby of the family. It was time to come clean. Maybe if we all put our heads together—once all the pieces were laid out—we’d be able to figure it out. So I told them about everything Dad had been hiding—the Theodore Brand land grab, the missing file, the letters from Winston Morris, the lies.

  When I got to the part about Lina, Charlotte put a hand to her mouth, shock in her eyes. “She’s younger than I
am.”

  “They got close when they were doing that Dancing with the Stars thing. But the affair didn’t last long. Letty Cline put a stop to it.”

  “Do you think what happened to Lina has anything to do with the murders?” Charlotte asked.

  Arabella sighed. “I’ve been considering it. Can’t say for sure just yet. That day when we were all out searching, I found her at the bottom of a ravine. She was a mess. Looked like she had more bones broken than were intact. But if she had been at the top, standing along the tree line, and lost her footing, then those injuries would make sense. We recovered her camera—well the memory card was still intact, and she’d been taking nature shots. Her computer at the paper office had half an article about outdoor recreation when the weather turns cooler. It all fit—she was out there taking pics to go with her story; her fall was an accident. I didn’t look into it any farther. But maybe there’s more to it.”

  “Too many moving parts.” Porter lay all the way back on the rug, tucking his hands under his head.

  “I brought one more.” Logan leaned over the arm of the couch and pulled a laptop from his bag. I recognized it from Dad’s office.

  “I’ve tried a bunch of password combinations. No luck. I could send it off to the crime lab in Columbus, and they could hack into it there. But that’ll take time. Given the ‘you’re next’ note on Letty, I think the sooner we access this, the better.” He placed it on the glass coffee table. “Anyone here happen to know the password?”

  Porter and Charlotte looked at each other while I weighed the pros and cons of helping with the laptop. Time wasn’t on our side. I could feel the chances of solving this mess slipping away like blades of summer grass between my fingers. It was an easy decision. I slid the computer down to my side of the coffee table and flipped it open.

  “Are you seriously going to break into Dad’s computer?” Charlotte perched beside me on the arm of the sofa.

  “Do you have any better ideas?”

  “No. It just seems so…”

  Porter rose and stood next to her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter anymore. He won’t mind. And maybe it’ll help us figure out what happened.”