“I don’t know, to tell the truth.” He squinted in thought. “I don’t remember seeing it after the funeral. Everything was such a jumble.” He paused. “Lots of people were in and out of the house for the wake and again after the burial. I suppose one of them could’ve taken it.”
“Mr. Peavey, we have some indication that membership in this group might be passed from father to son.”
His eyebrows shot high on his forehead. “And you think I might be involved?”
Cass shifted. “Well sir, it’s a possibility we have to consider.”
Old man Peavey wiped his forehead with his arm, smudging it with grease. He turned to the tractor’s engine, pointing. “Tighten that for me, son.” He watched Truman work for a moment. “Sounds like you’re asking me to prove a negative, Cass. I’m not sure how to do that.”
“I – uh, would you mind if we took a look at your house, sir?”
He sighed heavily, wiping his hands on red work rag. “For that book and the briefcase?”
She nodded and watched as he pushed his glasses back up on his forehead, pulled a pipe and tobacco pouch from his hip pocket and went through the ritual of lighting it. He puffed quietly, tamping the cooled tobacco with a silverish object, and then topping the pipe up, tamping gently and lighting it again. Truman reached for a different wrench and went to work on the oil filter as the scent of cherry flavored smoke filled the barn. Peavey sighed with satisfaction, yellowed teeth gleaming as he spoke around the pipe’s stem.
“You ever change your mind about po-licing, son, you give me a call. You’ve got a future as a tractor mechanic.” He replaced the tobacco pouch and glanced at Cass. “I don’t reckon it’ll hurt. Ain’t nothing in that house to worry about, certainly no briefcase or robe. And Mrs. Peavey just polished the furniture, so she won’t mind company. Come on,” he said, marching toward the barn door, heavy boots thumping on the tired plank floor. He stopped suddenly, swearing under his breath. “Son, put that wrench down and go get that goat for me. She’s in Mrs. Peavey’s garden again.”
CHAPTER 58
“OF COURSE I KNEW he was screwing her. What do I look like, an idiot?” Charlene Garrett stood outside the hospital’s service entrance, cigarette dangling from one hand, the other wrapped tightly around her waist. Her designer handbag sat on the ground at her feet, gaping. The scent of rotting food wafted from a nearby dumpster. A clutch of reporters had formed near the hospital’s main entrance and the emergency room doors, alert for her first appearance. After clawing her way up from the sedative Grey had given her, she’d demanded to be released. Dr. Ramasubramanian refused, insisting that she stay through the afternoon for observation. But he had relented on her demands for a smoke, perhaps hoping that once the nicotine hit her system she would calm down. Charlene had grabbed her short leather skirt and white t-shirt, yanking them on before stomping angrily through the hospital. “Everybody knew he was sleeping with her,” she continued, cutting a chilling glance at Mitch. “Almost everybody.”
“Did you confront him with it?” he asked.
“Are you asking if I killed my own husband?”
“Did you?”
“I dreamed it a thousand times, but last night I was over in Stanton in the hospital with my sister. She’s pregnant. Is that good enough for you?”
“Did you ever confront Chad with what you knew about him and Mo?”
“Didn’t have to,” she grunted.
“I don’t understand.”
She flipped her cigarette to the ground, grinding it impatiently with the delicate tip of a sandal. “Here’s some free advice. You ever cheat on your wife, wash your dick afterwards. He stunk of her. And watch your checkbook. If she’s smart, she’ll make you pay. Literally.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mitch replied, glancing at Munk as Charlene squatted to dig in her handbag, tapping another cigarette from the pack and flicking open a fancy silver lighter. She was a pretty woman, not voluptuous like her stepsister Mo, but trim and athletic. Muscles rippled in her thighs and calves as she pushed herself into a standing position. “We’ve been out to the house, Charlene. Where’d you get all that new entertainment equipment?”
She stopped mid-drag, a fog of smoke circling in her open mouth. “Who said you could go in there?”
“We needed to figure out Chad’s last movements,” Mitch explained. “You were sedated, couldn’t give us permission, but we went in as part of the investigation into his death.”
“Amazing,” she breathed. “Can’t believe people are spying on me even after he’s dead.”
Munk spoke as he and Mitch exchanged a glance. “What do you mean, spying on you?”
“Chad was flipping out the last few months,” she answered, tugging her skirt down with one hand. “Kept looking over his shoulder all the time, like somebody was watching him. Even made me nervous, but he wouldn’t talk about it. Sometimes I felt like somebody was watching me, but I never saw anybody.”
“When did his behavior change?”
“Around Thanksgiving, maybe before. At first, I thought it was because I was spending so much money,” she said grimly. “But he didn’t even notice. He was too busy with that slut.”
“You had extra money going into your bank account Charlene, cash payments. Where’d they come from?”
“How do I know?” she shrugged. “Chad got the money, I just spent it.”
“Was he working a second job?” Mitch asked.
“He was too busy trying to slip it into Mo to have time for a second job.” She plucked a piece of tobacco from her tongue and inspected it before flicking it away. “I wondered if he was dealing drugs.”
“Why?”
“The money. And because he was acting so paranoid. But Chad didn’t have the balls for something like that,” she answered casually, and Mitch flinched mentally at her words.
“He ever say anything to you about the money?”
She paused, cigarette poised to slip between her lips. “He joked once, about blackmail.”
“What about it?”
She sucked in a lungful of smoke and released it in a slow stream. “Just that he had no idea blackmail could be so profitable.”
Mitch paused, stunned. “Garrett was blackmailing somebody?”
Charlene shrugged. “The money came from somewhere, didn’t it?” Her face brightened. “Hey, when will his life insurance pay out?”
CHAPTER 59
TRUMAN CRANKED THE TRUCK as Cass waved through the windshield to Mr. Peavey. “Nice old man,” he commented, sliding the gear into reverse and backing the truck around.
“Mr. Peavey’s all right. I can’t imagine that he’s involved in any of this, but I guess you never know.”
“You happy with the search?” Truman asked as he pulled out onto the black top road leading to the highway. They’d examined the house quickly but thoroughly, checking in drawers and the tops of closets, surreptitiously looking for loose floorboards or joins in the walls. Nothing was out of place.
“We did what we could do,” she answered, checking the clock on the dash. “It’s already six thirty. Man, it’s been a long day. It still doesn’t seem real.”
“Garrett?”
“Yeah.”
“I know what you mean. He wasn’t that old, and what happened to him sounds bad.”
“It was,” Cass said, pushing the images of Chad Garrett’s body from her mind. “Swing by the bank, Truman, and let’s see if Jed Salter is there. I can’t imagine that he will be, but it’s worth a try.”
“If he’s not, you want to go by his house?”
Cass sighed. Sheriff Hoffner was reluctant to upset these powerful men, and she didn’t want to provoke his ire any further than she already had. “Let me check with Mitch, see what he wants us to do. We could go find John Earl Shepherd and ask about his daddy.”
“What about his momma?”
“Whose momma?”
“John Earl’s. Isn’t she still alive?”
&nbs
p; Her face brightened. “Of course, Truman. She’s in the same nursing home as Big Momma. Forget the bank,” she ordered, flipping her phone open and pushing Mitch’s speed dial button. “Hit the Loop and let’s go to Heavenly Hills. If we time it right, Marguerite’ll feed us leftovers.”
____________
MARGUERITE CLUCKED WITH SATISFACTION as Truman held his plate out for another helping of roast beef and mashed potatoes. As Cass had predicted, the chubby chef was more than pleased to have another two mouths to feed. The woman who owned Heavenly Hills Assisted Living Center, Karen Adamson, sat with them, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. Marguerite served Truman and turned back to her preparations for the next day’s breakfast.
Karen shook her head at Truman’s appetite, and smiled at Cass. “You said you wanted to talk to Mrs. Shepherd?”
“About Mr. Shepherd. Is she up to it?”
“I think so. She’s still depressed about his death, but it’ll do her good to know that people remember him. And it’s taking her a while to settle in. She still believes her son will take her back home.”
Cass snorted. “John Earl? Not likely.”
Karen traced a heavy scar in the table’s surface. “Deep down, she knows that. But she’s still got hope. Is there anything I can help with?”
“No, but thanks. Should we talk in her room, or maybe out on the porch?”
“Probably her room. Mosquitoes are getting bad outside. I’ll go check on her while you finish supper. Does Big Momma know you’re here?”
Cass shook her head. “She was getting her bath when we came in. I’ll stop and see her when we’re done talking to Mrs. Shepherd.”
Karen left them as Truman sopped up the remainder of his gravy with a thick chunk of bread. Cass eyed him while he ate. “You could put Mitch to shame,” she said. “You’ll have to join us one morning, see if you can’t out eat him.”
“I don’t know if I could take on Mitch.” Truman burped quietly, patting his trim waist. “Besides, I have to think of my figure. Ready for Mrs. Shepherd?”
____________
CURTAINS WERE DRAWN OVER the large windows in the great room, creating the intimate feel of a family living room. Most of the residents were in their nightclothes, settled in comfortable chairs in front of the wide screen television, canned laughter spilling through the room. In one corner, a stern woman in scrubs spooned pureed food into the toothless mouth of a wrinkled old man.
Mrs. Shepherd was resting in a large recliner when they came to find her. “Hello, Cass dear.” She smiled and lifted her cheek for a kiss. “And who is your handsome young friend?”
Cass bent to hug the older woman. “This is Officer Scott Truman. He’s helping me with an investigation.”
She held a liver spotted hand out to Truman. “Nice to meet you, Officer Truman. Help me up from this chair, won’t you? Karen said you’d like to talk about Mr. Shepherd.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, placing a hand under her elbow to help her to a standing position. She held his arm as she shuffled toward her bedroom. Drawing the curtains and switching on a desk lamp, she settled into a rocking chair, motioning Cass into a worn recliner opposite. The soft smell of her room was a comforting combination of violets and face powder. Truman pulled a straight-backed chair in from the hall and placed it to one side of the room.
“Now,” Mrs. Shepherd began, “does this have anything to do with that terrible business today?”
Cass drew a quick breath. “About Officer Garrett?”
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Shepherd, shaking her head slowly. “I know Mrs. Garrett. She’ll be devastated.”
“Yes, ma’am, I imagine she will.” She hesitated. “I don’t know whether this has anything to do with his death. We’ve found Mr. Shepherd’s signature in a book called The Church of the True Believer. Is that familiar to you?”
“Oh yes,” she answered dismissively. “Mr. Shepherd belonged to that silly group for a few years.”
Cass was stunned into momentary silence. “Could you tell us about it?”
“I don’t know that it’ll help much, but I’ll tell you what little I know.” She pushed off with her slippered toes, setting the rocker gently in motion. “Mr. Shepherd was invited to join this ‘elite’ group sometime in 1985. It sounded perfectly legitimate to me, Christian men with responsible jobs who wanted to do well in the community. I expected it was similar to the Lion’s Club. But,” she said, rocking slowing, “things changed, rather suddenly. Mr. Shepherd and I had always had an open relationship and suddenly, he became very secretive and a little more… I suppose authoritarian is the right word.” Her face colored and she drew her sweater more tightly around her. “I have a university degree and worked in the bank for many years. Mr. Shepherd had always shown me the greatest respect, and viewed our marriage as a partnership, which was rather uncommon in those days.”
Cass nodded slowly. “I think I understand. Men tended to go to work, women to stay at home and tend to the house and kids.”
“Exactly. Things have come such a long way, my dear, and you are a perfect example of how times have changed.” She glanced at Truman. “Not that there’s anything wrong with a man wanting to take care of his wife and family, you understand, just that women are capable of more than giving birth and scrubbing toilets.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Truman shifted in his chair. “I have sisters. I know all about equality.”
“It will serve you well one day.”
“You said things changed, Mrs. Shepherd,” Cass said.
“It happened quickly, his invitation to join and the changes in him. There was some sort of ceremony, and he came home with this new attitude, a locked case, and a row of stitches in his side.” Cass’s eyes flew briefly to meet Truman’s and she saw the shock registered in his face. “I couldn’t believe it. Mr. Shepherd had never had a sick day in his life. He was the most fastidious of men, had never been hurt in any way. And here he shows up with this long cut on his body,” she pointed to her right side, beneath her arm, “holding out a dirty choir robe and telling me to wash and iron it, and won’t discuss what’s happened or who did this to him.”
“He didn’t tell you how he got cut, or who stitched him up?”
She shook her head, voice brittle. “No. And over time, he started preaching to me, quoting Ephesians five, in particular, only it wasn’t the Ephesians five that I know. He left words out, and perhaps added words. I’d never heard such nonsense in my life. It was worse after those meetings. And when I challenged him – granted, this was some time later – he lifted his hand to me.” Tears filled her eyes with this revelation, and she plucked a tissue from a box on her nightstand. Her voice quavered. “Mr. Shepherd had never, in all the years we’d been married, even hinted at violence toward me.” She fluttered her tissue at Cass. “Of course, he spanked John Earl. Goodness knows that boy needed it, and probably more. But never had he threatened me.”
Cass waited, allowing the older woman to collect herself. “I’m sorry this is so painful, Mrs. Shepherd.”
“I tend to cry easier as I get older,” she said through a watery smile. “You might find the same. I think I would like a cup of tea. Should we go to the kitchen to finish this sad tale?”
Truman again helped Mrs. Shepherd from her chair and down the hall. Following behind them, Cass stifled a smile. Mrs. Shepherd needed no help to walk and she suspected that the older woman simply enjoyed the attention of a twenty-something year old man. Given Truman’s fresh, innocent appearance, Cass supposed she couldn’t blame her.
They settled around Marguerite’s worktable, mugs of herbal tea steaming in front of them. “Did Mr. Shepherd ever hit you, ma’am?” Truman asked tentatively.
She shook her head, silvery strands gleaming in the overhead light. “I was so appalled when he raised his hand to me the first time; I think he was ashamed of himself. It happened once or twice more, but he never followed through. ‘Correction’, he called it,” she sniffed. “I�
��m not sure what I would’ve done if he had hit me.”
“How often did Mr. Shepherd meet with them?” Cass asked.
“He would leave the house late in the evenings at least once a month, telling me that he was going to meet some of the boys. Always explaining that it was business-related and taking that old briefcase with him.”
“Did you see what he kept inside it?”
She flashed a mischievous smile across the table. “All those years working in the bank taught me how to jimmy open a teller’s till, if nothing else. Silly girls were always leaving their keys at home.” She took a delicate sip of tea. “I picked the lock once, when Mr. Shepherd was out. There wasn’t much inside. Just that choir robe and a heavy book.”
“What color was the robe?”
“Plum.”
“Mrs. Shepherd, you said that Mr. Shepherd belonged to this group for a few years. He passed not long ago, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Three years ago this autumn.”
“He lived almost twenty years after first joining. Did he quit?”
Mrs. Shepherd nodded. “We had the most terrible fight one night when he was on his way to one of those meetings. I couldn’t take it anymore.” She lifted her chin in a defiant gesture. “No, I wouldn’t take it anymore. All the secrecy. Never outright lies, but half-truths about where he’d been and what he’d been doing. The condescension, the subtle threat of violence. I told Mr. Shepherd that he could have his silly group, or he could have me. And that was that.”
Cass blinked. “What happened?”
“He quit that night. Took that briefcase with him like he always did, but he didn’t bring it back. And when he got home, it was almost like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders.” She looked into the gloomy evening settling outside the kitchen’s bay window. “I waited up for him, and he didn’t come home until almost daybreak. He’d never been away that long before. He sat with me on the sofa and cried.”
The Devil of Light (Cass Elliot Crime Series - Book 1) Page 25
