Death Crashes the Party

by Vickie Fee

  I followed and tried to keep at least one car between us. With sunglasses on and my hair pulled back in a ponytail, I hoped I wouldn’t be easily recognizable to Ray, since I’d met him face-to-face on only one occasion. Ray’s first stop was for gas at a little two-pump station. Afraid to get that close, I pulled into the parking lot of a small shopping center across the highway that housed a beauty salon, dry cleaners, and a cell phone store. There were enough cars pulling in and out to give me good cover.

  Just as I started mulling over the idea of calling my own hairstylist to schedule a cut, Ray’s pickup pulled back onto the highway. Despite a good bit of traffic, I was able to keep close to him without much trouble. Ray drove into a mini-storage site, another place where I couldn’t really follow him without risking being seen. I turned into the next driveway, which belonged to a concrete company. The business was apparently closed on Sundays, so I circled around behind the building and stopped next to a chain-link fence that overlooked the mini-storage place.

  With binoculars, I spotted Ray and made a note of the building and the unit he was accessing. Since I knew Ray lived in a small camper, I suspected that he used the storage unit to store his Civil War reenactment gear, like Darrell and Duane had. I also wondered if any of the stuff in his unit might be stolen. He opened a padlock, slid up the garage-type door, and went inside, then pulled the door about halfway closed. It was too dark and too far away for me to see anything inside the unit. He was inside for only a couple of minutes, and he wasn’t carrying anything when he emerged.

  I couldn’t help but notice through the binoculars that Ray was dressed up pretty spiffily for him and even had his hair slicked down on top. The thought that a lady might be on his mind was further implicated when he stopped at a vegetable stand and bought a bouquet of flowers. Ray headed back in the direction of Dixie before turning off onto a county road that led eventually to McKay Trucking. As soon as there were no cars between us, I backed off to avoid being spotted and occasionally lost sight of him as we went over hills and around curves.

  I panicked when I lost sight of the truck and didn’t spot it once I’d made it around a curve. I sped up just in time to catch a glimpse of his truck disappearing down the gravel road that led to Tonya Farrell’s farmhouse.

  Chapter 11

  “Can you believe the nerve of that guy?” I asked Di via cell phone as I drove back to town. “There he goes, flowers in hand, to see the Farrell brothers’ grieving mother. He’ll probably even try to seduce her.”

  “That may be just what she wants,” Di said. “As hard as it may be for us to believe, some women might consider Ray Franklin a catch.”

  “I can’t believe he could get a date without roofies and a Taser,” I said, still shuddering at the thought of any sort of fleshly contact with the man.

  I told Di I was on my way to the trailer park. “I should have at least twenty minutes to search Ray’s trailer.”

  “You’re insane,” Di said, before adding, “Swing by my place and pick me up on your way.”

  All the way to Ray’s, I was worried about whether I’d be able to jimmy open the lock on his camper door. Before I could even fish the nail file out of my purse, Di had reached inside the concrete block serving as a step to the camper door and had pulled out a key.

  Once inside, Di and I warbled a collective “Eeew” at the general state of uncleanliness. Di suggested that she start searching at the front, I start at the back, and we meet in the middle. In the back of the camper was a built-in bed. I tugged at the mattress to check for anything that might be hidden under it. The sheets were stiff and visibly stained; I wished I had brought gloves with me. I was looking in the fridge, again wishing I had gloves, when Di said she had found something in a box stacked in the corner.

  “Here’s a picture of Darrell and Duane when they were little kids. At least it’s got their names on the back.”

  I glanced at the photo and immediately recognized their mother’s house. “That’s definitely them,” I said.

  Even weirder, Di said she had found a postcard addressed to Bobby Farrell at an APO address in Iraq with Duane’s and Darrell’s childish signatures, along with Xs and Os, scrawled on it.

  Finishing my search of the freezer, I noted that a TV dinner felt much heavier than it should. I carefully opened the end tab and slid out a small book from inside. It looked like a diary. Di and I found a book of a similar size and weight to put back into the carton, hoping Ray wouldn’t notice the diary was missing, at least for a while. After trying to make sure everything looked as we had found it, we left. Although the place was such a mess, it could have been ransacked before we arrived.

  I drove away from Ray’s and started to pull up in front of Di’s place. But I didn’t want Ray to see my car when he returned, since I had been tailing him all morning, so I drove to my office on the square instead.

  “By the way, Liv, I mentioned our doubts about that reserve deputy to Dave. The thought had already crossed his mind after he heard about the attack on the professor.”

  “Good. At least he knows to watch his back until he knows for sure about that guy.”

  We went upstairs to my office, and I laid the diary on my desk. Di pulled a chair from opposite the desk up beside me, sat, and peered over my shoulder as I paged through the diary we had found at Ray’s. The first entry was from just over a year ago.

  D. laid out the plan for us today. If we’re careful, we should be able to raise enough money for the move in about two years.

  “I wonder who D. is?” Di mused.

  “If the diary belonged to one of the Farrell boys, it could be referring to his brother—either Darrell or Duane.”

  “Flip through a few pages and see if any names stand out.”

  First package was delivered, no problem. I feel like I can breathe easy again for the first time in a week. Bro says to relax, but there are so many ways things can go wrong.

  “Bro could certainly be one of the Farrells referring to his brother,” I said.

  “Check the date of the final entry. See if it is close to the time of the murders,” Di said.

  The last entry was made three days before the bodies were discovered.

  Another lie. Bro says it’s one lie too many.

  “Oh, my gosh, Liv. It sounds like the brothers discovered the truth about whatever they were mixed up in, and it got them killed. We have to give this diary to Dave.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I mean Dave won’t be able to use this diary as evidence, because it was obtained illegally. I’m going to take the diary home and read the rest of it. Hopefully, I’ll glean some information that Dave can use as grounds to get a search warrant for Ray’s trailer. Then we’ll have to put the diary back where we found it so the sheriff can discover it legally.”

  “Okay,” Di said. “Just keep in mind there could be information in that diary that already got two people killed.”

  At home, I once again cracked open the diary, sunlight streaming through the window to illuminate the pages. The light began to fade into early evening shadows. I reached up to switch on the lamp when it suddenly occurred to me that I should have heard something from Larry Joe by now. I dialed his cell phone, but the call went directly to voice mail. For an awful moment, I imagined my husband lying unconscious and perhaps seriously injured in a hospital somewhere between Huntsville and Dixie. Maybe he had fallen asleep at the wheel. I called the warehouse number at McKay’s and was panic stricken when there was no answer.

  Pull yourself together, I told myself. Of course there’s no answer. It’s Sunday.

  After a few deep breaths, I had the presence of mind to call Ralph Harvey at home. He would have heard if the shipment Larry Joe was delivering had not arrived.

  He finally picked up the phone after the sixth ring.

  “Ralph, this is Liv McKay,” I said, trying not to sound hysterical. “Have you heard from Larry Joe today? I know it’
s silly, but he hasn’t called, and I was beginning to worry that he might have had engine trouble or maybe even an accident on the way back from Huntsville.”

  There was a long pause before Ralph mumbled, “He made it home safe and all, but, er . . . well, I’m sure he’ll call you as soon as he gets a chance. He, uh . . .”

  “Ralph, please just tell me what’s going on.”

  “Well, I’m sure it’s just routine, but . . . the FBI seized the truck before we could unload it and took Larry Joe in for questioning.”

  I think I said thanks or good-bye before hanging up the phone, but I can’t be sure. My mind seized up as emotions took over. Larry Joe had been hauled off by the FBI, and it was all my fault. I never should have taken those tapes. And what if the FBI were to suddenly burst through the front door with a search warrant? They’d find not only the tapes but the diary, too. It would look like Larry Joe was systematically removing evidence.

  I’d have to call and turn myself in, tell them I stole the tapes. No, that was no good. They’d just think Larry Joe and I were in on it together. What could I do? Finally, my sanity began to return. If Larry Joe had been allowed one phone call, he would have called our attorney, Bill Scott.

  I called Bill and left what I hoped was a slightly coherent message, telling him to call me if he’d heard from Larry Joe, and to call me even if he hadn’t heard from Larry Joe, because he would be needing his help. In a few minutes, Bill returned my call. I began to babble again, frantically, before he could get a word in.

  “Liv, calm down and listen,” he said in a steady voice. “I’m at the FBI field office in Memphis right now, in the process of getting Larry Joe released from custody. He hasn’t been charged with anything, and I should have him home in a couple of hours.”

  “Oh, thank you, Bill. Is he okay? Is there anything I can do?”

  “He’s fine. Just sit tight. I’ve got to go now.”

  I heaved a huge sigh of relief. But my relief quickly turned to anger as I thought about how the FBI was wasting precious time harassing my husband and my father-in-law while drug smugglers and murderers were on the loose.

  With a renewed sense of determination, I went back to reading the diary, carefully studying each page. I didn’t want to miss a single detail that might point to the murderer.

  A couple of hours later, I heard the front door open and quickly stashed the diary under the sofa. I ran to the front door, threw my arms around Larry Joe’s neck, and soaked his shoulder with my tears.

  “It’s okay, babe,” he said softly. “I’m fine. I’ve had proctology exams that were less thorough, but I think the FBI has lost interest in me as a serious suspect. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part. Anyway, they let me go and just told me not to leave town again without checking in with them first.”

  I stepped back and took a long look at my husband. He looked dead on his feet.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” I said, wiping the tears from my face and trying to compose myself. “Here, you’ve been through hell, and you’re having to comfort me. Tell me what you need.”

  “I want to drink a beer and then go to bed and sleep for at least twelve hours.”

  “You’ve got it. Take off your shoes, put up your feet, and I’ll bring you a cold beer.”

  As he downed the last of the beer, Larry Joe could barely keep his eyes open. I put him to bed and snuggled up beside him. I figured he would be out cold as soon as his head hit the pillow. And I was right.

  With Larry Joe down for the count, I slipped downstairs to the den to read the rest of the diary. As much as I wanted to skip to the last pages, I knew some of that information might not make sense without reading the earlier entries. Most of the entries were dated, some weren’t, but they were definitely in chronological order. The first entry was from the end of June last year, and the last entry was from just a few days before the Farrells’ bodies were discovered.

  Sept. 2 – Bro had a close call with the boss today, while working on one of the trucks. Luckily, I was nearby, and he was able to pass off the stuff to me.

  Since Darrell worked on the trucks, he must be Bro, I thought. That would mean this was Duane’s diary. That made sense, because Tonya had said that Duane started keeping a diary as a kid, and Kenny had mentioned that Duane would sit on the apartment steps, writing in some kind of notebook.

  Sept. 9 – BB nearly went ballistic when we told him about the delay. He chilled when Bro told him things got back on track today.

  Hmm. BB must be Bobo, I thought.

  Oct. 14 – D. had to hide in the closet when Mama dropped by. I still think she has a right to know, but D. and Bro say no way we can let her get mixed up in this. I guess they’re right.

  Okay, clearly Bro and D are two different people, I mused. And D. must be somebody their mother knows, since he hid in the closet to keep her from seeing him. Maybe Bobo’s first name or last name begins with a D. Could be he’s a cousin or a schoolmate of theirs that their mom knows is bad news.

  Nov. 3 – Just got back from reenactment camp in Missouri. First one with D. since everything came out. Our unit did so great. Everybody was right on cue. D. said he’s so proud of his boys.

  Dec. 17 – We just bought D. a Christmas gift. We got him a Leech & Rigdon field officer’s sword. I’m excited about our first Christmas with D. Actually, Bro says it’s not the first, but of course I don’t remember anything about those early ones.

  Hmm, I thought. “Our first Christmas with D. . .” Clearly, D. is someone very special to Duane, a father figure. Maybe Ray Franklin? But what’s the D. stand for?

  Oh my God. Dad! D. is Duane and Darrell’s dad!

  Chapter 12

  After drowsily reading through entry after entry, I was suddenly wide awake, jolted by this new revelation: Ray Franklin was Duane and Darrell’s father. I kept trying to wrap my mind around the revelation. D. had to be Ray Franklin. He had spent so much time with the boys. And he had that picture of them and that postcard they’d sent when they were little. Not to mention the diary.

  But their dad was supposed to have been killed in Iraq. If he’d been alive all that time, why had he waited so long to contact his kids?

  As huge as this discovery was, I knew I needed to read the rest of the diary before morning—and I hoped something turned up that pointed to the murderer.

  July 2 – BB says we have to ramp up operations again. We can’t do that without getting caught. Bro says there’s been too many close calls already.

  July 4 – BB really blew up. He says if we don’t get more stuff going soon, it’s going to get complicated for us with his boss. D. says to let him worry about BB. He’s got experience in hand-to-hand combat if it gets rough.

  Sounded like the Farrells were really in over their heads.

  July 19 – Bro says knowledge is power and it’s time we knew more details about the operation. He’s planning to dig up info on BB, follow him and stuff. I tell Bro maybe we should let D. handle it, but he says that’s too risky. D. needs to stay under the radar. Tells me not to mention anything to D. I don’t know what to do.

  This was less than a month before the murders. It sounded like Darrell was wading into dangerous waters. My heart was racing as I read the final pages. I found myself hoping Duane and Darrell would escape unharmed somehow, even though I already knew this story had a very unhappy ending.

  July 28 – Bro says a lot of things are starting to add up, but he won’t tell me what’s going on. He says he has to be sure first, because if he’s right, the shit’s really going to fly.

  Aug. 1 – Reenactment went well. Bro says to get ready, because we may have a real battle to fight soon. Says he should have some answers in a day or so. I promised I wouldn’t say anything to D., but maybe I should. I’m real worried. Bro’s barely eaten or slept in two or three days.

  Then I reread the ominous final entry.

  Aug. 5 – Another lie. Bro says it’s one lie too many.

  I slipped qu
ietly into the garage and stashed the diary under the driver’s seat in my SUV before heading back upstairs to bed. Larry Joe didn’t so much as twitch as I slid beneath the covers. I couldn’t sleep with words from the diary running over and over in my head.

  At just after 5:30 a.m., I slipped on some jeans, a T-shirt, and a ball cap and tiptoed downstairs, leaving Larry Joe snoring away. I was dying to tell Di what I had learned, and wanted to catch her before she left for work. As I turned onto Maple Street, I was startled to get a glimpse of myself in the rear-view mirror. I had left the house without putting on make-up or so much as dragging a brush across my bed head.

  The light was on in Di’s kitchen when I arrived. I tapped lightly on the front door.

  “Come on in,” Di called out.

  When I walked into the kitchen, she was at the counter, with her back to me.

  “I can’t believe you’d just holler, ‘Come on in,’ without bothering to see who’s at the door.”

  “I knew it was you,” she said, digging a spoon into a bowl of Cheerios. “Who else would be knocking on my door at this hour of the morning?” Di sat down at the table and invited me to pour myself some coffee. “You look like you could use a cup. I’m guessing you found something interesting in the diary.”

  “Interesting? Try absolutely shocking.”

  Di looked irritated as I punctuated my statement with a long pause.

  “Wait for it,” I said. “Ray Franklin isn’t just a father figure to Darrell and Duane. He is their long-lost father—who apparently didn’t die in the Iraq War, after all.”