His breath smelled of hot dogs and chili. I folded and unfolded my paper napkin, repeating the process a few times while contemplating what I should say. Telling him to go to hell was a thought, but it would have to remain just that. Aside from the money he’d spent with me on his campaign, he was one of my biggest contract advertisers.
Stinger Realty owned a slew of rental cabins proudly displayed in a full-color half-page ad every week. He, like other local businesses, thrived on tourists. Mountain-lovers from surrounding states flocked to our tiny town for the three weeks in October known as “peak season.” A time when leaves showed their colors in dazzling displays of reds, oranges, and golds. Quaint shops and small businesses, including Stinger’s rental cabins, often carried their high earnings during the time through the rest of the year and often into spring.
He’d also put the moves on me while his sickly wife looked the other way. Sometimes I hated this business.
“I had planned to call Calvin this afternoon, as a matter of fact.”
“Good! Glad to know it’s not going to be swept under the rug.”
I was curious why the problem had lately become such an issue. Poaching was as old as the hills themselves. The mere fact Ed Stinger was involved meant it had become political.
Ivy grew restless so Ridge entertained her again with his drumming fingers. She grabbed for his hand and cackled.
Stinger offered a sad smile. “Horrible about her mother. Any leads?”
Ridge glanced up and shook his head. “None I can discuss.”
Diane saved us from more awkwardness. She tore off our ticket from the order pad and handed it to Ridge against my protest. “Ed, your takeout order’s ready at the register.” She stroked Ivy’s hair, making a tsk-tsk sound, then turned and hurried to the next table.
When Ridge stood to leave, Stinger slid out of the booth then turned back to me. “I’ll let Calvin know you’ll be calling him this afternoon.”
After Ed slithered away, I stood and lifted Ivy from the high chair. “So—what about the poaching problem?” I threw it out there since the article would need an official statement from the sheriff.
“Despite what Ed Stinger thinks, it hasn’t been swept under the rug. And yes, you can quote me on that.”
“I will.” I slung my bag over one shoulder and hoisted Ivy to my hip. One would never know it’d been years since I toted a baby around. For a moment, the thought surfaced I might miss having her around after her grandparents picked her up.
We waded through the maze of occupied tables, making our way to the register. I felt the stares aimed at the baby perched on my hip, heard the hushed whispers. Unlike years past, this time the whispers weren’t about me, or Ridge, or my dead husband. For Ivy’s sake, I wished they were.
At the register we fell in line behind Brent O’Reilly picking up a takeout order. I wanted to ask him about Brady but didn’t. I didn’t think the O’Reilly’s family troubles needed my interference.
He paid for his order then accidentally bumped my shoulder as he turned to leave. “Sorry,” he said in a hurry, but stopped and smiled at Ivy. She wagged her chubby hands and reached for him.
“Whoa,” I said, struggling to keep my hold on her.
Brent nearly dropped his lunch as he moved to catch her. “Squirmy little thing, isn’t she?” He laughed once she was upright.
He lightly tickled her tummy while making goofy faces at her. “Hey, thanks for letting Brady stay the other night. We’re butting heads a lot lately. Teenage stuff.”
My day was probably coming with Cole so Brent earned my sympathy. “No problem. Brady’s always welcome at the house.”
Ridge reached around me and handed the ticket along with a twenty to the cashier.
I wasn’t having that. Not in the middle of an election season. “I’ve got mine. I had the wrap and the nuggets.” After fishing my debit card from my bag, I handed it to her.
“Ava—”
“You’re not buying my lunch, Grayson. I’m not giving Ed Stinger ammunition.” I smiled at the cashier then wiggled my fingers at her to ring mine up separately.
I signed the receipt then stuffed everything back in my bag. By the time I stepped out of the way, Brent was already gone.
“You ready?” Ridge looked at me, noticing my hesitation.
“What? Oh…yeah, sure.” I readjusted Ivy on my hip and turned to the door.
CHAPTER 6
I called Calvin from the parking lot and arranged to meet him at two o’clock. Ivy’s eyes were heavy-lidded and her mood sleepily quiet. We could both benefit from a good nap, but it wasn’t on my agenda. I called Doretha and asked if she’d mind letting Ivy nap there while I trudged through Calvin’s land.
She was at the door waiting when I arrived. “Bless her heart. Bring her in here.”
I followed her through the kitchen and into the dining room where she had an old pack-n-play set up. Emma had taken many naps in it when she was a baby. Despite its age, it was in good shape.
I kissed Ivy’s forehead then gently laid her down. She squirmed a little but then rolled onto her side and settled into steady breathing. “I appreciate you watching her for me. I forgot what trying to work with a little one around was like.”
Doretha smiled. She’d kept Cole and Emma and many others from the time they were in diapers to when they had book bags weighted down with school work. “You know she’s always welcome here. Anything new from the sheriff’s office?”
I shook my head. “Sheriff Ridge is meeting Trish’s parents at the morgue. Once everything’s official, he may be able to say more.”
Doretha twisted her lips. The motion lifted her eyebrow as well. I’d seen that look my entire life. “Hmph. How much more official can it get? Dead is dead.”
There was no use bickering with her about anything to do with Grayson Ridge. She held him personally responsible for Tommy’s death. He was my husband’s partner. Although Ridge was on vacation that day, Doretha still felt he let Tommy down. Personal issues aside, Ridge was a good sheriff. The people of Jackson County loved him. Everyone except Doretha and apparently Calvin Cooper.
We left it at that. “I better get,” I whispered.
Doretha gave me a hug followed by a quick pop on the backside. “Go do your thing, Miss Reporter.”
Calvin Cooper owned three hundred acres of farmland and forest that straddled Jackson and Birch Counties. The forested area, the land being poached, was in Jackson County, unfortunately for Ridge.
Two bluetick hounds bounded off the porch and greeted me with howls as I pulled to a stop at the end of the gravel driveway. The A-frame house was in dire need of fresh paint and shutters that actually hung straight instead of lopsided beside the dirt-streaked windows. Two pots of dying mums sat on each side of the rickety steps. Calvin’s wife took spells in trying to spruce things up.
Calvin stepped out onto the decaying porch, letting the screen door pop closed behind him. He was a stout man with a bulk that threatened the seams of his Carhartt coveralls.
“’Preciate you coming out like this, Ava. This dang-blamed poaching’s got to stop. Some of that ’seng’s been here twenty years or more.” He spit a stream of tobacco juice off the side of the porch then wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Mature plants like that’ll bring top dollar.” As if I was an authority on the magical plant known as Ginseng. You couldn’t grow up in the Appalachians without knowing a little something about it. The old folks, growers, and buyers simply called it ’seng.
“Thought we’d take the four-wheeler so you can see for yourself. Maybe get some pictures.”
I slipped out of my loafers and into my extra pair of hiking boots. This wasn’t a job for skirts and heels. Calvin cranked up the ATV while I retrieved my notepad and phone from the Tahoe. Despite being there an
d doing my job, my mind rambled in several directions. My heart wanted to be back at Doretha’s with Ivy. Ridge should be with Trish’s parents at the morgue by now. And later, they’d take Ivy with them. Maybe for good.
Calvin wheeled the ATV around beside me. “Climb on up here.”
I climbed aboard and straddled the seat, scooting closer to his backside than intended. In my defense, his backside took up a good portion of the seat.
“Hold on. It gets pretty bumpy after we clear the pasture.”
I sighed, quietly.
A small herd of Black Angus cattle scattered as we passed, interrupting their grazing.
“How’s the cattle business this year?” I yelled over the engine.
“’Bout like everything else these days. Seen better times.”
When we reached the edge of the pasture, he stopped, climbed off and opened the iron gate separating the farmland from the forest. Once we were on the other side, he closed the gate. He spat another stream of tobacco juice then climbed back onboard.
About a quarter mile into the woods, I was ready to tell him I’d walk the rest of the way. Every internal organ was jostled out of place. He finally stopped and killed the engine. My knees wobbled when I first tried to stand, making me grab for the ATV to steady myself.
“Watch it there.” He took hold of my arm until I found my footing. “Can’t have our star reporter taking a tumble.”
I laughed, shaking off the jello legs. It’d been years since I’d been on an ATV. Tommy, Ridge, and I used to ride on weekends. Once we traveled to West Virginia to ride a mud trail. Not all the memories of my marriage, or of Grayson Ridge, brought tears.
“The first spot’s up here a little ways.”
I followed him up a steep slope, grabbing hold of sturdy branches for support. At this time of day, the ribbons of sunlight filtering through the dense woods of the north side of the mountain were few and far between. The damp musty smell from Saturday’s rain lingered, trapped beneath the canopy of forest trees. Scratchy thickets grabbed at the hem of my jeans and around my boots.
Calvin stopped about twenty yards off the trail and pointed to a spot under a thick pine. “See here? Look how big that hole is.”
The hole was definitely man-made. A few red berries lay scattered around. From the depth of the hole, the ginseng sported decent-sized roots. I stepped closer and snapped a picture with my phone.
“Over here’s another one.” He walked a few yards from the first hole. “And another. Look real close and you can see footprints.”
I followed him, snapping pictures of the larger holes. “How many holes total?”
“Too damn many to count.”
I stopped and brushed the hair out of my eyes. Sweat from the climb dampened my forehead and hair. “How much money you think you’ve lost?”
Calvin stopped walking and propped his foot on a broken stump. “Hard to say for sure, but probably around fifty grand.”
The holes dotting Calvin’s land justified his anger. Ginseng season often brought out the worst in people, making enemies of friends. “What does Sheriff Ridge say about it?”
Calvin let loose with a deep laugh, filled with more anger than humor. “Said ain’t nothing he can do about it unless I catch ’em red-handed. Don’t have the man power for surveillance. Ain’t that a crock of shit?” He spat another stream of tobacco. “I plan to leave this land to my sons and their kids, but what good will it do them if there ain’t no crop left?”
“What about other growers? Are they having the same problems?”
“The hobby farmers like me are. Locals who depend on it for income have pickers. They tend to chase the rogue bastards away.”
I wasn’t sure I’d consider something with potential to earn fifty grand a hobby.
Calvin looked over his shoulder at the crest. “Seen enough or you want to see more? Gonna be getting dark up in here shortly.”
“I’m good.”
He nodded as he came down from his perch then led the way back to the four-wheeler. “That was something ’bout that girl getting murdered, wasn’t it? Did you know her?”
Apparently he hadn’t heard the entire story and I wasn’t going to be the one to share it with him. “Yes. I knew her. Been a long time since Jackson Creek’s had a murder, so I guess everyone’s on edge.”
“Adaline’s locked up the doors every night since it happened. Scared to be in her own house with the door unlocked.”
He climbed aboard the ATV and cranked it up. I wedged in behind him, bracing myself for the ride back. As we bumped along, I looked around the land, at the hills and the valleys, and wondered if whomever had killed Trish was out there. Hiding in the shadows like the boogey man, or maybe even walking the streets of Jackson Creek waving hello to friends and neighbors.
Calvin’s wife wasn’t the only one now locking her door.
When we got back to the house, we sat on the porch, drinking sweet iced tea, and finished the interview. Bug, the smaller of the two hounds, took an interest in my glass, trying a couple of times to take a drink.
Calvin hurled a stick in the hound’s direction. “Bug—git on, you crazy dog. Like I was saying, there’s two dealers in these parts that I know of. One of ’em, over near Roan Mountain, got a name for buying from anyone. Aster Hastings’s done business with him before. The other buyer, Anderson Lee, you might know him.”
I did know Anderson. “I want to do some more research on this, Calvin, before rushing to get it to press. It may be an issue or two before it runs.” I shooed Bug away from my drink again.
“Long as it runs before the election.” He laughed, making me wonder how much Ed Stinger had to do with this. Ginseng had been growing in these mountains for thousands of years, and poachers had been digging it for almost as many. A different sheriff wasn’t going to change that.
It was three thirty when I left Calvin’s, anxious to get back to Ivy. Hating the thought of her waking up in a strange place, unsure of her surroundings or the people around her, I sped through the curvy roads carefully.
The road leading from Calvin’s was free of the tourist traffic clogging Main Street. Tourists loved the changing of the leaves like visitors in England looked forward to the changing of the guard. Most of them kept to the main streets or the parkway, avoiding the winding side roads where most of the locals lived. As I guessed, as soon as I hit the town limits, traffic was at a crawl. Rather than parking and walking along the sidewalks that stretched maybe all of a mile, people drove from one trendy shop to the next. The stoplight at Main and Birch Mountain Road cycled red twice before I inched my way through the intersection. I passed the little art shop where Trish sold her work. A handmade “CLOSED” sign still hung in the window from when she closed up shop on Friday. A few window-shopping tourists stopped and looked in the gallery then moved on, unaware of the tragedy.
When I got to Doretha’s, Ivy was not yet awake but she was stirring.
“She’s been a little restless,” Doretha whispered, gazing at the baby. “Got about thirty minutes before the school bus gets here with Emma. Why don’t we have some tea while we wait.”
Anger that my daughter was now too scared to stay by herself in her own home made my skin crawl. It made me angry that this murder had stripped away our sense of security.
In the kitchen, Doretha put the kettle on then pulled two mugs from the cabinet. “Did you get what you needed for your story?”
I sat down at the small dinette table where I had eaten many meals. There were still pencil impressions in the soft wood from where I used to do my homework. “I got enough for a start. Someone’s poaching ginseng from Calvin Cooper’s land.”
“Hmph. Poaching ’seng’s been going on since before Calvin himself was alive. Must be some other reason he’s wanting a story.”
I laughed out loud. “You got that right, and his name’s Ed Stinger.”
She sat the two mugs on the table, folded her arms across her chest and glared at me. “You think Mr. Stinger’d do something like that? Stir up trouble this close to the election?”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Seriously? I told Calvin I wanted to interview a couple other people before the story ran, and you know what he said?”
“What’d he say?”
“He said as long as it runs before the election. Now you want to ask me again if I think Ed Stinger’s involved?” I grinned like I had it all figured out.
She narrowed her eyes, probably not so much not believing Stinger would orchestrate something so politically motivated as not wanting to believe Grayson Ridge was the intended victim. Lucky for me, I was saved by the whistle. Defending Grayson was never easy with Doretha. She removed the kettle from the stove and poured the boiling water over the orange spice tea bags in our mugs.
We could drink our tea, talk about the ugliness of small-town politics, or talk about the going price for ginseng. We could talk until neither of us had anything more to say. But the truth was we were dancing around the subject. The baby in the next room faced an uncertain future whether Ed Stinger was elected or not.
“Grayson was meeting Trish’s parents at the morgue at two.” I spoke in a quiet voice and it had nothing to do with the sleeping baby.
Doretha glanced at the rooster-shaped clock above the table. She stirred her tea without saying anything. After a long moment, she set the spoon aside, closed her eyes, and said, “Lord Jesus, lead and guide them during this difficult time. Give them the strength they will need in the coming days, in Jesus’s name I pray, amen.”
I closed my mind to the horrible things wanting to fill my head and breathed in the strong scent of the tea.
“Do you think they’ll take her back to Raleigh to bury her?”
I shrugged. It was hard to say. “They waited two days to come claim her body.” Bitterness churned in my voice.
Tell Me No Lies (An Ava Logan Mystery Book 1) Page 5
