by Diane Moody
Julie gently pushed her back, holding her by the elbows. “Georgia, calm down. Please—tell me what’s going on here.”
“I-I-I—” Hiccups eclipsed her attempts to answer. Like a clown who’d been doused in a rainstorm, Georgia’s mascara and eye shadow streaked blurred lines across her normally cheerful face, her penciled eyebrows smudged across her brow.
“Georgia, look at me.” She took hold of Georgia’s face between her hands. “Take a deep breath. Go on, do it.”
Georgia took a ragged breath, then held it, her puffy face turning red. Her eyes grew wide, searching Julie for help.
“For heaven’s sake, Georgia, breathe!”
She exploded with a desperate gasp. “But you said to take a deep breath!”
“I know, but I would have thought you’d—”
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll please take a seat.”
Julie turned at the sound of Jeff Carter’s voice. Jeff had played baseball with Gevin back in high school. Now married with two kids, he served as Braxton’s police chief. She’d never seen him so serious.
The murmuring silenced as she and her coworkers took a seat at the table. Julie helped Georgia into a cushioned chair near the center of the table, then took the seat beside her.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as some of you already know, Mr. Peter Lanham was found dead this morning at the base of the city water tower.”
The collective gasp sucked the air from the room, leaving a sudden silence in its wake. Disbelief rippled down the entire length of the table. Surely he was wrong! Peter Lanham—dead? Julie immediately noticed the intense scrutiny by the police officers as they watched everyone’s reaction to the shocking news.
That’s when she remembered that Brad was Peter Lanham’s nephew. She quickly glanced several seats down where she found his face frozen in disbelief. How horrible to find out about his uncle’s death this way. Just then he looked over at her with eyes filled with sorrow, the sight bringing tears to her eyes.
She turned her head toward the far end of the table, searching for Mr. Lanham’s personal assistant. Donella sat motionless, her eyes rimmed in red. Her strict, no-nonsense approach to the workplace kept her ostracized from the day-to-day banter and camaraderie among the office employees. Most of Julie’s coworkers barely tolerated her, describing her as arrogant and aloof. But Julie had always felt sorry for her. Now, seconds after the announcement of her boss’s death, Donella looked straight ahead, appearing detached from the commotion around the table. A single tear escaped from the side of her eye; she made no effort to stop it.
Company vice president Christopher Smithe drummed his fingers on the table as his eyes darted around the room. True to form, he kept running his hand over his balding head as if to verify that the ring of close-cropped black hair was still there. Only once did the strange nervous tic jerk his head as it so often did.
Carter continued. “At this point in our preliminary investigation, we have every reason to believe Mr. Lanham committed suicide.”
“How can you say that?” Georgia cried. “Mr. Lanham wouldn’t jump off that water tower any more than you or I would!” She whimpered as she blew her nose again into the streaked handkerchief.
A volcano of rapid-fire questions erupted.
“Suicide? Was there a note?”
“Were there signs of a struggle?”
“Does Mrs. Lanham know yet?”
“Hey Brad, did you know?”
“Does the rest of the company know?”
“Who’s going to take his place?”
“When can I go to my office?”
“Can we get some coffee in here?”
“Maybe some donuts?”
Carter raised his hands. “Folks! Folks! Let me have your attention, please.” He pounded the table a couple of times until the noise ceased. “We cannot answer any of your questions at this time. The body was found only three hours ago, so we don’t know much at this point. I will say, however, that we have not ruled out foul play. For that reason—”
The doors to the boardroom suddenly banged open. A stocky, middle-aged man wearing a wrinkled black suit and a scowl on his face stormed into the room. A younger man with dark curly hair followed closely behind, his crisp Oxford cloth shirt, navy tie, and tan slacks a sharp contrast to the rumpled appearance of the other man. He lifted a leather briefcase onto the end of the conference table and popped open the locks.
Julie shuddered, realizing that’s where Mr. Lanham always sat in meetings. She’d never seen either of these men before. The older one whispered something to Jeff. They exchanged words back and forth until Chief Carter held up his hands and stepped back.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be taking over this investigation now. I’m Special Agent Sam Berkowitz of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. This is my partner, Matt . . . Matt—” he snapped his fingers at the younger man.
“Bryson.”
“Sorry. Matt Bryson. Matt’s just been with us for a few days now. Still a little wet behind the ears, but I’m sure he’ll be a terrific asset. Eventually.”
Bryson glanced up at them with a sheepish half-grin, his face coloring.
“Sam Berkowitz?” Smithe asked. “Wasn’t that the name of that serial killer?”
“Yeah, the one they called ‘Son of Sam,’” someone added.
Berkowitz perched his head at a cocky angle toward the vice president. “Thank you so much for bringing that up. No one’s ever asked me that before. For the record, the so-called ‘Son of Sam’ was David Berkowitz. No relation, but trust me—you don’t want to get on my bad side. Got it?” He looked around the table. “Okay, now that we’re all chummy best friends, let’s get down to business. Chief Carter, thanks for getting this party started.”
“I beg your pardon!” a voice bellowed from the opposite end of the table.
Twenty heads whipped to see Donella stand up, yanking off her glasses. “How dare you burst in here and speak like that at a time like this. Who do you think you are?”
Berkowitz wiped his shaved head with a handkerchief. “Now, now, don’t get your knickers in a knot, Miss—?”
“My name is Donella Willet, and I am—was—Mr. Lanham’s personal assistant. I will not allow you to disrespect him or us with that kind of language. Especially at a time like this.” She folded her arms across her chest and stared him down.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, Ms. Willet—”
“Miss Willet.”
“Miss Willet. Fine. Whatever. Look, no disrespect intended. The thing is, we’ve got a mess on our hands here. We need to search Mr. Lanham’s office—Chief, did you seal that off?”
Jeff nodded.
“Good. Now, the next thing we need to do is talk to you fine people. Each and every one of you. Just a few questions, then you’re free to go.” He shot his eyes back at Donella. “If that’s okay with you, Miss Willet?”
She took a deep breath, nodded slowly, then took her seat again.
“Fine. Just one more thing. Don’t go talking to the press or telling everybody in town about all this. We’ll have plenty of time for that later.”
Julie seethed. We’re not a bunch of kindergartners here, Kojak. Stop speaking down to us. And who made you head of this investigation? Why can’t Jeff handle this? She studied Agent Berkowitz, making mental notes about his peculiar characteristics and caustic manner as he continued.
“With Mr. Lanham’s high profile in this community and across the state, for that matter, the media will be all over this like hickory sauce on a baby-back rib. If we’re going to do this right, we’ve got to have your complete cooperation. Am I clear on that? If I find out one of you has been shooting your mouth off to the TV boys, I’ll be in your face before you can blink. Capisce?”
Julie squirmed as Berkowitz stared straight at her. She forced herself to stare back, unflinching.
“You first.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. You, Goldilocks. Grab your stuff
and follow me.” He leaned toward Matt, lowering his voice. “You take Miss Welcome Wagon back there.”
Bryson’s eyes shot to Donella. “Who, Miss Willet?”
Julie stood up, draping the strap of her purse over her shoulder. She tried to steel her nerves, already taut with tension. Small towns don’t take well to strangers, especially when they barge in unannounced in the middle of tragedy. Nearing them, she overheard Berkowitz talking quietly to his partner.
“See what she knows about our tower diver. Try to see what she’ll tell you about the rest of these folks while you’re at it. If there’s a nut case in the house, I wanna know.”
Bryson’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Are you sure you want me to—”
“Yes, I’m sure. And don’t let her intimidate you with that Attila the Hun act. Let her know who’s in charge. Got it?” He turned toward the officers still lined up by the windows. “Chief Carter, keep your men here and make sure nobody leaves. No one touches Lanham’s office ’til the print boys are done. Understood?”
As Julie started out the door, Georgia grabbed her arm. “Oh Julie, I’m scared. What if I say something wrong?”
“Just stay calm.” Julie gave her a hug.” You’ve got nothing to hide. I’ll talk to you when I get back, okay?”
“Goldilocks, get a move on it.” Agent Berkowitz scratched the day’s growth along his jawline. “Let’s go, let’s go,” he barked, snapping his fingers as he went out the door.
Julie turned to follow him, then glanced back at the younger agent closing his briefcase. He looked up, and for a moment their eyes met. One side of his mouth lifted in an awkward smile. Not the smitten kind of gawking like Brad’s, but a shy, genuine smile. She returned the gesture then left the room, wishing something she’d never wished before; to change places with Donella Willet.
Chapter 3
The original Lanham’s Grocery Store, nestled just around the corner from Braxton Square, had changed little since its opening in 1927. A newer more upscale version located near the interstate had enjoyed numerous updates and additions to reflect the changing times in Braxton’s long history, including the more sophisticated name, Lanham’s Fine Foods. But the small brick building near the square remained a landmark symbol of a different time, when a town’s local grocery store was more than just a place to buy food; it reflected the heart of its people.
The little store fit right in, tucked among the shops, boutiques, and cafés lending Braxton its small-town charm. In a town that prided itself on clean streets, flower-filled window boxes, and quaint Victorian lamp posts, the Main Street Lanham’s, as the locals called it, added to the overall ambience of the community.
Sheltered beneath its trademark green awning, the store’s long bank of front windows still boasted the old-style paper banners featuring weekly specials. Apples for 99¢ a pound. Leg quarters for 48¢ a pound. Canned corn 2/$1. Only the digits changed as prices rose through the years. Inside, narrow aisles filled with canned goods, cereals, teas and coffee, detergents and paper goods were bordered by a perimeter of fresh produce, cold cases of dairy products, and a small in-store bakery.
Justin Lanham, the founder of Braxton’s pride and joy, may have been a traditionalist in his day, but he was wise beyond his years when he designed a small gathering spot for his many faithful customers. In the back right corner, intentionally located beside the bakery, a sprinkling of parlor tables and chairs offered friends and customers a chance to relax for a while and swap the latest news over pastries and coffee. The store’s own Breakfast Blend, a robust brew dispensed from a vintage copper urn, was always fresh and always on the house. Old man Lanham would rattle in his grave if a Starbucks ever opened on Main Street. To him, a free cup of coffee was as important to business as well-stocked shelves and a hearty welcome from employees upon entering the store.
At half past ten, word of Peter Lanham’s death had already spread across town, and most likely, to every Lanham’s store across the country. A fresh wave of sadness left a sizable lump in Julie’s throat as she entered the store that day. An enormous wreath of black satin ribbons and ebony feathers hung at the entrance. With the offices closed for the rest of the day, she knew many of the corporate employees would be gathered at the small café in back.
“Julie, good morning.” Tess Verlin stepped out from behind her cash register to give her a hug. “It’s all so unbelievable. Are you okay?”
“I guess. It’s been a rough morning for all of us, that’s for sure.” She surrendered to Tess’s embrace, knowing it would be the first of many here. By the time she reached the café in back, she’d been hugged, patted, and had her “little heart” blessed a dozen times. It felt so strange. After all, she wasn’t related to the Lanham family. But as the face and voice of Lanham’s commercials over the past couple of years, she knew people somehow grafted her to the family tree.
The family tree . . .
As she wound her way back to the crowded café, Julie thought about Brad. As Peter’s nephew, he was part of that family tree, though she realized she’d never heard him talk about his family ties. How odd. Then again, Brad was an odd duck. He kept to himself for the most part, preferring the seclusion of his cubicle to the regular office chatter. How many times had she passed his cubicle only to find him sound asleep, sometimes snoring?
Julie poured herself a cup of coffee, then found a seat and joined her coworkers.
Coco Norton scooted her chair over to make more room. “Julie, how’d the questioning go? Wasn’t that Berkowitz a trip?”
“No kidding. I thought I’d never get out of there. What a waste of time. I told him he ought to be poring over Mr. Lanham’s office looking for evidence of foul play, not pointing fingers at all of us. I refuse to believe Mr. Lanham jumped, and I told him so, too.”
“Bet he loved that,” Greg Johnson quipped. “Berkowitz has a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas.”
“Well, at least you didn’t have to put up with his flirting,” Coco added.
“And it’s a good thing,” Greg teased. “But what a joke. Why weren’t those guys out following some leads or talking to the Ice Queen out at the Lanham lair instead of acting like all of us are somehow guilty?”
“Oh, I’m sooooo glad you’re all here,” Georgia blubbered as she floated toward them. With a series of sobs, she hugged each of them. Greg flinched at the gesture which left a streak of rouge on the shoulder of his white golf shirt.
“Georgia, let me pull up a chair for you.” Julie grabbed one from the table next to them.
“Oh, thank you, sweetheart.” With great flair, she flopped into the tiny chair and wiggled for balance then addressed them after a loud, dramatic sigh. “Oh, my dear, dear friends. This is such a day of sorrow, such a sad, sad day of—” When she could no longer speak, she blew her nose with a loud honk into her handkerchief.
Tony Meldrose, the store’s head baker, interrupted them as he lowered a basket of assorted pastries onto the table. “Boss sends his condolences. These are on the house.” He wiped his hands on his white apron, sniffled, and quickly departed.
“Isn’t that just the kindest thing . . .” Georgia’s voice climbed several octaves before launching into another round of quiet sobs, her shoulders heaving.
Julie put her arm around her, winking at the others. “It’s okay, Georgia. Let it out, honey.”
When she finally composed herself, she blew her nose again then continued. “It’s all the more difficult for me because this is . . . this is the first time I’ve been back here since . . . since . . .” She buried her face in Julie’s shoulder.
“Oh my goodness, I completely forgot,” Julie whispered, remembering too late that Georgia’s ex-husband had worked as a Lanham’s truck driver from this location. Here he had met the person who stole his heart—produce manager, Lucy Llewellyn. The scandalous news of his affair with the woman everyone now dubbed “Floozy Lucy,” still consumed town gossip at ball parks, bridge games, and knitt
ing circles. Such dalliances may be vogue in New York and San Francisco, but Braxton still eschewed such blatant adultery. Especially when it hit so close to home.
Unable to come up with an appropriate response, the silence grew thick until Brad joined them.
“Brad? We didn’t expect to see you here,” Coco said.
He pulled out a chair and straddled it backwards. “Yeah, I know. I just didn’t feel like going home.” He looked at Georgia, his expression asking, what’s with her?
Greg motioned for Brad to let it go, as they all hoped the sobs would subside.
“I assumed you’d be at the estate with the family,” Julie said. “Have you talked to your aunt?”
“Me?” He eyed the basket of pastries. “No.”
“But you’re family, Brad,” Coco added. “Shouldn’t you—”
“We’re not close.” His abrupt answer hung in the air.
Always willing to fill the gaping silences, Julie said, “Well, either way, we’re sorry about your uncle.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” He jumped up and walked over to the soft drink dispenser, filling a super-size plastic cup with ice and Mellow Yellow.
How could anyone be so unmoved at a time like this? But this was Brad—socially awkward, reclusive Brad. She remembered Peter Lanham once telling her that Brad was the son of his only sibling. Shannon Lanham had died when Brad was just ten. He never mentioned a father, and of course she’d never asked.
A constant parade of customers stopped by, extending their sympathy and asking when the funeral would be held. No one seemed to know until Harley Creech, the town’s only florist, pushed through the swinging doors from the back of the store. Julie bit her lip recalling Gevin’s reference to Harley as the floral version of an ambulance chaser. Harley loved funerals; his favorite albeit discreet motto—“Funerals are a florist’s best friend.” Julie thought it ironic how Harley came to life when someone died. His familiar tacky toupee, which rumor has it he found on eBay for $9.99, always hung on for dear life when Harley got excited. Today, it tilted over his right ear like a small hairy umbrella.
