by Vickie Fee
“So what was the man after in the storage room? Were there drugs hidden inside some of the stuff?”
“No. He just nabbed one sword. Apparently, it’s a pretty rare piece, according to Professor Shapiro. But he also had a camera with him and took digital photos of nearly everything in the storage unit.”
“Hold that thought,” I said.
I got up and walked over to the vending machine area adjoining the waiting room to buy Di a Diet Coke of her own. I’d say my mind was racing, but I was operating on too much of a sleep deficit for that. It was more like my mind was stuck in second gear, trying to forge up a steep hill. I wondered why anyone would go to the trouble to break into a room full of expensive collectibles, only to steal just one item and take some photographs.
Di resumed telling me the story, pausing occasionally when prying ears moved past us.
It turned out the not so professional thief was a legitimate dealer of Civil War goods and was named something Adams. He had owned a store near Nashville for the past ten years. He said he had bought some stuff from Darrell Farrell a while back that turned out to be stolen. He found out when a dealer friend of his was in town, visiting, and spotted something in the store that had been burgled from one of his longtime customers, some real big-time collector. And the collector had insurance photos to back up his claims.
Adams said he returned the stolen goods. The only problem was, he’d already sold a couple of items he had bought from Darrell. He paid the ripped-off collector market value for the sold items, and the victim agreed not to report it to the police or tell fellow collectors. Adams said he was ticked off to be out of the money, but he was really more worried about his reputation as a dealer. It could ruin his business if word got around to serious collectors that he had bought or sold stolen goods.
Adams said he took pictures of all the stuff Darrell had in storage to find out if any more of it was stolen. He figured if he had proof, he could get Darrell arrested—and probably collect a reward from the owners for the return of their collectibles.
“But why did he take the sword?”
“Supposedly, it’s an expensive, really rare sword. Adams said he was pretty sure it hadn’t been stolen, because he figured he would have heard about it if a piece like that had gone missing. He said he wouldn’t risk trying to sell it, but he wanted it for his personal collection. Considered it payment for the stolen stuff Darrell had pawned off on him,” Di said. “That’s his story, anyway.”
“Do the police think this guy, Adams, is the one who assaulted Dr. Shapiro? Could he be mixed up in the murders?”
“He swears that he had nothing to do with the Farrells’ deaths, that he heard about the murders only after he had tracked down Darrell’s address in Dixie. But it seems to me he had a pretty good motive, especially if he had confronted the Farrells about the stolen merchandise. He apparently has a solid alibi for the time of the robbery and assault at the professor’s house, but he doesn’t seem to have an alibi for the time of the murders.”
“What is Dave going to do with him? Has he been charged?”
“He was charged with breaking and entering, but he made bail this morning. Dave told him he could go home to Nashville, but he has to check in with the cops there. And Dave let Adams keep the pictures he took after downloading copies to the computer at the police station. Dave told the guy he could discreetly show the photos to some collectors that have been robbed. If he can document that any of the stuff in Darrell’s storage unit is stolen and who it was stolen from, it could give Dave a new lead in the murder investigation.”
“And you were able to prod all this information out of Ted over an ice cream sundae? You’re good,” I said.
Di replied to my comment with stony silence.
Chapter 18
Larry Joe and his mom made it back to the hospital in time for the last visiting period of the day, and Di said her good-byes. Daddy Wayne seemed to be resting comfortably when we looked in on him. Larry Joe and I went back to the waiting room, while Miss Betty stayed beside the bed, holding tightly to her husband’s hand.
Later we tried to talk my mother-in-law into going home for the night. But she refused to leave while Daddy Wayne was still in the ICU, and Larry Joe couldn’t let her stay all night in the waiting room by herself. Although I offered to stay the night with his mom so Larry Joe could sleep in a real bed for a change, he wouldn’t hear of it. I fervently hoped the doctor would be able to move Daddy Wayne into a regular room soon.
I pulled out of the hospital driveway, thinking of all the things I needed to do in the morning. I needed to go to the grocery store. I needed to call Mama. I really wanted to find out more about the stolen Confederate artifacts and how they might tie in with the drug smuggling. And I desperately needed to catch up on some work.
Despite all the questions running through my mind about what I had learned from Di, I was asleep by the time my head hit the pillow, and I didn’t stir until well after 7:00 a.m. I started the coffeemaker and took a long, steamy shower. Savoring a hot cup of coffee, I sat at the kitchen table, looking out my window at blue skies streaked with white and gold. I felt almost like a normal human being again after days of losing sleep and being worried sick about the murders, my father-in-law’s health, and the family business, not to mention getting caught breaking into Ray’s trailer and being grilled by the sheriff for hours. Oh, and I almost forgot about the whole “finding two dead bodies in a garage” incident.
My cell phone, which was still in vibrate mode, the mode I had switched it to at the hospital, suddenly began to buzz and dance across the tabletop. I was surprised to see it was a text message from Di, since she rarely calls while she’s working.
When I opened the message, a photo popped up of Ralph Harvey and Bobo standing on a porch, talking. Di had texted, If this is Bobo, call Dave. House in 400 block of W. Spruce couple minutes ago.
I had never seen Bobo in person, but it was definitely the same guy I’d seen on the tape with Ray Franklin, so that was confirmation enough for me. Why would Ralph be talking to Bobo? I followed Di’s advice and called the sheriff. I filled him in and then forwarded the photo to his phone. Dave said he’d have an unmarked car check it out. I then texted Di to let her know what was happening.
I felt queasy at the thought that Ralph, a longtime trusted employee at McKay’s, could possibly be involved in smuggling drugs or maybe even murder.
So much for things feeling normal again.
I tried to busy myself by unloading the dishwasher and sorting laundry. More than an hour passed without my hearing from Dave. I called his cell, but my call went straight to voice mail. As anxious as I was to find out something, I knew only too well that Dave was much more into receiving information than doling it out.
I dressed and drove to the office. I figured that staying busy was the best thing I could do. I touched base with a couple of clients. The phone rang, and it was a potential client. If I’d had the energy, I would have done a little happy dance. I made an appointment to meet with the parents of the bride about a formal engagement party.
As a rule, I don’t do weddings anymore, although on occasion I still get roped into planning a wedding for family or close friends. Weddings just bring too much drama. I mean, it’s usually not a huge deal if a guest shows up at a party and he’s already been hitting the bottle. But if it’s a wedding and the drunk in question is the father of the bride, it can spell disaster. Been there, done that. As a party planner, I just find bridal showers and engagement parties—and pretty much any event other than a wedding—to be much less stressful.
I was humming a lively tune after I got off the phone with the new clients. We had scheduled an appointment for them to come to my office. They had called because a good friend of theirs had given me a glowing recommendation—which was always nice to hear. And it sounded like they had a large and lavish celebration in mind, which could add up to a very nice payday for me.
Next, I gathered up
my notes and headed downstairs to Sweet Deal Realty’s office for an 11:30 a.m. conference. I had a meeting with Winette, Dixie Chamber of Commerce director Bryn Davenport, a local pastor, the mayor’s secretary and a couple of other people to go over plans for a Halloween party fund-raiser to benefit Residential Rehab. This wasn’t a moneymaker for me or for anyone else involved. It was strictly volunteer, but for a very worthwhile cause. The meeting broke up around 12:20 p.m. Just as the others were leaving, I stepped away to answer my cell phone. More good news. Larry Joe had called to say they were moving his dad to a regular room.
“That’s the biggest grin I’ve seen on your face in a while,” Winette said as she walked from the conference table back to her desk.
“It’s the best news I’ve had in a while. They’re finally moving my father-in-law to a regular hospital room.”
“That is good news.”
“You’re pretty dressed up, Winette. Do you have some house showings today?”
“Naw. I’ve got a funeral to go to.”
“I’m sorry. Was it someone close?”
“It’s a lady at my church. She was ninety-eight, I think. Anyway, she hadn’t been doing too well for a long while. She’s got lots of children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I’m going to help out with serving lunch to the family after the funeral.”
I couldn’t help wondering how much potato salad they’d have.
As Winette left for the funeral, I wandered over to the diner. All the booths and most of the stools at the counter were already filled with the lunch crowd. I nabbed a small table for two against the wall, one wedged between the hall to the restrooms and the swinging doors to the kitchen. Since I’d had nothing but coffee for breakfast, I ordered a vegetable plate with turnip greens, fried squash, and glazed carrots.
I had just placed my order and was handing my menu back to the waitress when I caught sight of Deputy Ted Horton over her shoulder, walking in my direction.
“Diner’s about full up. Mind if I join you?”
“Pull up a chair. I’d appreciate the company.”
Our waitress had disappeared momentarily and reappeared with a glass of iced tea for Ted. “You want the special, hon?” she inquired, touching Ted on the shoulder. He nodded, and she padded away in orthopedic shoes.
“What is today’s special?”
“I don’t remember what it is on Thursdays,” Ted said. “I just always order the special.”
I was dying to ask Ted if they’d learned anything new about the guy who had broken into Darrell’s storage unit or if any of the Civil War collectibles at the mini storage really were stolen. But that would be admitting that Di had told me everything he’d said to her over an ice cream sundae. I decided that would be bad form.
Ted interrupted my thoughts to ask how my father-in-law was doing.
“He’s improving. In fact, they’re moving him out of the ICU and into a private room today.”
“That’s really good news. I’m sure the investigation into the murders and the drugs has been pretty stressful for him,” Ted said, sounding apologetic.
This gave me the perfect opportunity to ask about Ralph Harvey and Bobo. After all, I was the one who had sent Dave the photo.
“I’m afraid it’s going to be really upsetting to Daddy Wayne if it turns out Ralph Harvey is somehow involved in all this. Do you know what his connection is to Bobo?”
“No, but thanks for the information about him and Ralph.”
I was afraid my inquiry had come to a dead end, but after Ted took a big gulp of iced tea, he continued.
“The Feds are tailing Bobo. They had lost track of him but are back on his trail, thanks to your call. They hope he’ll lead them to the top guys in the drug-smuggling operation.”
One waitress set our orders on the table, while another breezed over and refilled our iced teas. Turned out the special of the day was chicken and dumplings.
“What about Ralph?” I asked in a hushed tone after the waitresses had walked away.
“We’re keeping an eye on him. The Feds aren’t really interested in him right now. If he’s involved in the drug ring, it’s only as a two-bit player. They may question him later, once something turns up with Bobo. But now that it looks like he might be linked to Bobo and the drug smuggling, the sheriff thinks there’s a chance he could also know something about the murders.”
“Whose front porch were Ralph and Bobo standing on? I know Ralph doesn’t live on that street.”
“It’s Ralph’s mama’s house,” Ted said. “She’s in bad health. Doesn’t get out much.”
“Ralph’s worked for the company for years,” I said. “It’s just so hard to believe he could be mixed up in any of this.”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have enough information to bring him in at this point. I’d appreciate it if you kept this information under wraps for the time being. We definitely don’t want to tip off Ralph that he’s a suspect.”
I made the gesture of turning a key in my lips and throwing away the imaginary key as a vow of silence.
“Just out of curiosity, Ted, is Bobo a first name, last name, nickname?”
“Last name. His first name is Milton,” Ted said with a smirk.
Chapter 19
I was relieved to hear the Feds had Bobo under surveillance. But it blew my mind that Ralph might somehow be involved. He’s a key player at McKay’s, with knowledge of and access to just about everything that goes on in the company. Larry Joe and Daddy Wayne trusted him implicitly. I didn’t want to believe it was possible he had betrayed their trust and had put them and the company in danger.
Dave had too many pots boiling at the moment to keep an eye on all of them, so I decided it was up to me to stir this one. I needed to get the lowdown on Ralph But, who would know?
I couldn’t very well talk to his mama. She probably wouldn’t know anything about his dirty dealings, anyway. Then it hit me. I’d have to go to the gossip merchants. I didn’t want to, but desperate times called for desperate measures. So I phoned the beauty salon to see if I could get an appointment for this afternoon. If there was any dirt to dish, Nell Tucker and her crew would have it by the spades full.
I needed a haircut, but a quick cut wouldn’t give me much time to gather information. I decided to go all in and get a perm, as well. The receptionist told me they’d had a cancellation, so if I came straight over, Nell would be able to work me in for a perm and cut.
I walked through the front door of Dixie Dolls Hair Salon and was greeted by the pungent odor of perming and dye solutions and a fog of hair spray.
The raspy-voiced receptionist, Pat, greeted me without enthusiasm and advised me to take a seat. By my best guesstimate, Pat weighs over 350 pounds. I think she’s short, although I’ve never actually seen her rise to a standing position from her padded bar stool, its edges overlapped by her hips and thighs.
Nell waved to me from her station, where she was putting the finishing touches on a ninety-year-old woman’s coiffure, sealing it in a double layer of either varnish or hair spray. I wasn’t sure which it was. I flipped through a dog-eared magazine of hairstyles. The date on the cover was 1985. This should have been a warning, but I was absentmindedly flipping through the magazine while I tried to figure out how to bring up Ralph’s name in a casual way.
Nell’s elderly client shuffled up to the desk to pay, and Nell hollered for me to come on back and take a seat. She flung a black plastic cape over me and fastened the Velcro strip noose tight around my neck. She inquired about my mama and Larry Joe’s dad, and I asked about her husband and son. After we had covered all the pleasantries, including the weather, I took an opening.
“This is the first serious health issue we’ve had to deal with since my daddy died. Of course, he went quickly, collapsing on the golf course with a major heart attack. I’m hoping Larry Joe’s dad takes care of himself and sticks around for a long while yet. Speaking of which, I didn’t know until recently that Ralph Harvey’s mot
her was pretty much homebound. Do you know what her condition is?”
As I had suspected, Nell knew all about Ralph’s mother’s first and second strokes, as well as how she would probably have to start dialysis soon.
Our conversation continued from the sink to the chair and back to the sink and back to the chair over the next hour and a half or so, as my hair got washed, rolled, permed, neutralized, trimmed, and styled. I should have been paying more attention to what Nell was doing when she started rolling up my hair on rollers as skinny as toothpicks.
The conversation got off track a few times as we chatted briefly with other customers as they came and went. But in a nutshell, I learned that Ralph had got cleaned out in his divorce. His ex-wife, Kay, had claimed he cheated on her and got abusive when he drank. But according to Nell, Kay had had some extramarital action of her own going on. Despite getting fleeced in the divorce, Ralph still helped take care of his ailing mother and had a daughter attending a private college.
“And yet he just bought a new fishing boat,” Nell said. “Paid cash for it, too, or at least that’s what the guy at the boat dealership told my Billy while they were playing golf.”
Nell’s opinion, and the general consensus in the beauty shop, was that Ralph was making money on the side by gambling, and most likely cheating at it. But I was more worried he was taking in extra cash by running drugs through my family’s trucking company.
I tried to hide my alarm when Nell spun the chair around toward the mirror to give me a look at the finished product. My perm was fried. I looked as if I’d been electrocuted.
“Of course, it’ll loosen up quite a bit after you wash it,” Nell said unconvincingly.
After I paid her for abusing my hair, I went straight home and washed my hair three times. It didn’t loosen up one bit.
Tired and depressed, I took two aspirin and had a nap. When I woke up, I hoped the whole perm thing would turn out to be just a bad dream. That worked until I looked in the mirror.
