While Nola checked messages, I scoured the paper for the tiniest of errors council member Nancy Farmer would find. A retired schoolteacher, she thrived on pointing out the typos.
Not finding any, I put the paper away and called Ridge. His secretary put me right through.
“Good morning.” His voice was still fighting off morning dryness.
“Can I come by? I need to talk to you about something. There’s a connection between Trish and the ginseng.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m scheduled to speak at the Kiwanis meeting today at lunch. I’ll be leaving around eleven thirty, but if you can make it before then, I’m all yours.”
“Hot on the campaign trail, huh?”
He scoffed. “I’ll just be glad when it’s over.”
On a smaller scale, I understood where he was coming from. No one liked having every facet of their life scrutinized. Being the owner and publisher of The Jackson Creek Chronicle brought a small amount of name recognition with it, which I despised.
I did a quick scan of my schedule. “I’ll see you around nine.”
“See you then.”
I stared at the phone after we hung up. This case was forcing us together even if we didn’t want it to. Funny thing was, the pain that had accumulated over the years had lost its edge. It wasn’t as sharp or debilitating as it used to be. More like a dull ache you learned to live with. Maybe it was finally time to let go of a few things.
Nola breezed past me, heading to her desk. “So how did Ivy make out last night?”
Jolted back to the here and now, I forced a sad smile. “Okay, I guess. She started asking for her mommy.”
Nola’s expression turned sour. “Oh no. How are you going to handle that?”
I shrugged. “I said her mommy was in heaven and left it at that. I’m sure the more her language skills improve, the harder the questions will get though.”
Nola frowned then sighed deeply. “Poor thing.”
The phone rang, putting an end to the conversation. I was glad. If I never had to say another thing about how a toddler was coping with the death of her mother, I’d be happy. With Nola busy, I opened the public records database program on my computer and did a search for Greg Hastings. Four were listed from the area, two in Tennessee and two in North Carolina. My bet was the two North Carolinians were one and the same. Gregory Aster Hastings and Greg A. Hastings.
I scanned over his information then slammed the brakes as if the light had suddenly gone from yellow to red. Greg had three arrests with one conviction for assault and battery. Got a suspended sentence with two years of probation. All three instances were domestic disturbances with the last one allegedly occurring about three years ago.
Bile burned my insides so bad I wanted to vomit. I forced myself to breathe then leaned back in my chair and studied the screen. I knew Sherry. She and Greg had a daughter in the same grade as Emma. We had chaperoned several school field trips together. Apparently, daughters in the same grade weren’t the only thing we’d had in common.
This new twist made me even more anxious to talk to Ridge. There was a connection, no matter how small, between Greg, Trish, and the ginseng. Finding out how deep the connection ran was suddenly a target. At eight thirty, I gathered my notepad and bag and told Nola I was going to the sheriff’s office.
The Jackson County Sheriff’s office was in the former Jackson Creek Bank & Trust’s ancient three-story clapboard building with yellowed windows. Three vaults tucked away in the dank basement were made into seldom used six by eight holding cells. The real prisoners, those who would be staying more than a night, were transported down to Ashe County. Minnie’s Cafe delivered meals to anyone needing overnight accommodations.
Ridge’s office was on the ground floor down a short hallway fronted by a green marble counter that was once used by the bank’s tellers. It was now Annie Thompson’s desk, where she sat overlooking the small lobby. She’d been the secretary to four sheriffs, including Ridge. While most department employees worked at the discretion of the sheriff, Annie came with the job. It was something that was understood from one sheriff to another.
She glanced up from the computer monitor. Her lips arched upward in a welcoming smile. “Why Ava Logan—haven’t seen you in a while. You’ve cut your hair.” She removed her glasses, pushing the end of one of the pink arms between her teeth. “I like it. Very flattering.”
“Thank you. It’s a whole lot easier to manage. Just wash and go.” I tucked a stray lock behind my ear.
“You get it cut down at Clip-N-Curls?”
“Yes ma’am. Even used the coupon they run in the paper.”
She giggled followed by a little wink. “Grayson’s in his office. You can go on back.”
“Thank you.” I smiled then headed to Ridge’s office, surprised to find Detective Sullivan already there. I could have used the bags under Sullivan’s eyes as a purse.
Ridge’s office was small and in need of a good dusting. Forever at the mercy of the county commissioner’s budget, Ridge was a master at pinching pennies, especially during an election year. The cleaning crew must have been the first to go. The office was sparsely decorated with certificates and awards and an old framed photo of the Atlanta Braves pitchers known as the Fab Five. He did love his baseball.
He was seated at his desk with Sullivan standing beside him. Crime scene photos were splayed out in front of them. Like a horrific car accident, I couldn’t look away from a photo of Trish’s twisted body.
“Hope you don’t mind, I asked Steve to sit in with us.” Apparently he noticed me staring at the picture and gathered it and the others into a stack. He handed it off to Sullivan.
I finally blinked, burying the images. “No, of course I don’t mind.” I did, but what could I say? It was hard to explain something you didn’t understand yourself. Sullivan had every right to sit in on the conversation. Trish’s murder was his case and the poaching now seemed connected.
“How’s Ivy?”
“She was cranky yesterday. I don’t know if she didn’t feel well or what.”
Sullivan sighed. “Strep throat’s going around. Two of mine have it. We’re waiting for the other two to get it.” He shrugged in a what-can-you-do-about-it manner.
For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him. He always looked so damn tired. I don’t remember Cole or Emma requiring that much energy. But I had been a lot younger back then too. Sullivan was pushing forty with four under the age of eight. If the adoption with Ivy worked out, I might look as tired in a few years.
I sat down in one of the two visitor’s chairs across from Ridge’s desk then took out my notepad. “Is this an I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours thing?”
Ridge laughed. Sullivan didn’t. I flipped open my notepad. “I met with a ginseng buyer named Tiny Cormack yesterday in Roan Mountain. He said Trish was one of his best diggers.”
Ridge and Sullivan glanced at one another. I couldn’t gauge if the information was new to them or not. I continued, “Cormack said Trish told him she had a permit to dig Pisgah Forest. I haven’t checked yet if she did, but I can’t see any reason why she would lie about that.”
Sullivan clicked his tongue. “Digging on federal land carries jail time. That’s reason enough to lie.”
“Yeah, but why even admit that’s where it came from? I mean, if she didn’t have a permit, why didn’t she just say she dug it at Joe Blow’s? Why lie about it?”
Sullivan blew a sharp breath and stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. “Is this going in the paper?”
The sharpness of the question caught me off guard. It took me a moment to recover. In that moment, I wasn’t sure why I was even there. Who was helping whom with what? Since Ridge wasn’t jumping in to referee, or to defend me, I went for it myself. “Okay—here’s the deal, Steve. I had plan
ned to interview your boss about the annual poaching problem—yes, for the paper, if there was a story there. In my investigation about the poaching problem, I discovered Trish had a connection to ginseng, primarily to this Tiny Cormack. I was told by a source to talk to Aster Hastings about the poaching on his land—”
“Aster’s pretty sick from what I hear.” Ridge’s voice registered true concern.
I nodded. “He is. His boy, Greg, is picking for him now. Sue told me without that extra money they got for the ’seng, she didn’t know how they’d make it.”
Sullivan crossed his arms, glaring at me. “So how is this connected to Trish?”
“When I interviewed Tiny Cormack, he told me Trish was in there last Friday and she hit big. There were two men in line behind her waiting to cash in and one of them was Greg Hastings, Aster’s son.”
Ridge leaned into his desk, his eyes locked on mine. “Greg Hastings has a short fuse. He’s been a guest here a couple times. His prints will be on file.” He looked up at Sullivan, who quickly gathered up his case file.
“I’m on it,” he said, a new spark of energy in his eyes. He hurried out and cussed the old caged-door elevator in the hallway loud enough his voice carried back into Ridge’s office.
I sat back in the chair, satisfied with myself.
CHAPTER 15
Late that Friday afternoon, I learned to never underestimate the time it took a twelve-year-old to get ready for what she considered a date. A shower followed by blow-dried hair followed by a flat iron, coupled with three outfit changes and enough makeup to qualify as a Covergirl spokesperson and she was finally ready.
I was in the bedroom packing Ivy’s diaper bag when Emma came in and asked if I needed help. I stared at the girl that used to be my daughter, then pointed a stern finger toward the bathroom. “Off, Emma. The whole purpose of makeup is to enhance, not hide.”
“Is the red lipstick too much?”
I shoved a handful of diapers in the bag then turned around and cut Emma an I’m-not-happy look. “Well, that and the entire tube of mascara is a bit much.”
“It’s not mascara. They’re false lashes. Look.” She turned sideways and batted the fake lashes so I could get a better view.
They looked like long skinny spider legs growing out of her eyelids. “Where in the…where’d you get those?”
“Abby Reynolds gave them to me.”
“Okay, well, they need to come off. You’re not wearing fake anything.”
“But Mom—”
“Take them off, Emma.” I stuffed Ivy’s blanket in the bag while my irritation rose. I did not want an argument to precede our family fun night.
Her child-like eyes, so happy seconds ago framed by fake lashes, were now wet with tears. My heart cried for her. I remembered being twelve and having no one explain why some things were the way they were. Just the way things are, Doretha would say. “Look…Emma—”
“I know, you think I’m too young. But I’m twelve, Mom.” She wasn’t being defiant, just a kid trying to speak honestly.
I motioned for her to sit down on the bed. “Age isn’t it, Emma. This boy—Mason. He asked Emma-with-no-makeup if she was going to the football game, not Emma with false eyelashes. Don’t you think it would be better if the Emma he goes to school with shows up rather than someone ready for the runway?”
Her adolescent mind was processing the information while her lips were turned upside down in a pout. She huffed, admitting in her own way I was right.
“Besides,” I continued, “boys Mason’s age can be intimidated very easily by a pretty girl. It might be best to hold back a little. Know what I mean?”
“You mean it might overwhelm him?”
I bit my lip to trap the chuckle and prevent it from escaping. “Yeah. No need to overwhelm him.”
She seemed to accept that it was for Mason’s own good she go bare-faced and headed to the bathroom to wash the makeup off. I finished packing Ivy’s diaper bag, having no idea what I had already packed and what was still needed. A couple more diapers wouldn’t hurt anything. Ivy sat at my feet in the floor force-feeding a teddy bear and protested when I wrestled her into a jacket.
A few minutes later, I had her buckled into her car seat with a fresh-faced Emma beside her. “Have you got her stroller?” Emma asked.
We shared a dumbfounded expression. I didn’t have the child’s stroller, a high chair, or all the other staples that came with a toddler. “I’ll just have to carry her, I guess.”
“Are we ever going to get her stuff from her house? She’d probably like her own toys.”
“As soon as Ridge gives the all clear, I’ll go back over there.” If I had the money, I’d just buy everything new.
Jackson Creek High School was as old as the mountains surrounding it. The campus had been well maintained over the years, adding an annex along with a math and science building. A football field had been carved into the side of a slope years ago. Brent petitioned the school board every year for a new field, saying the field goal was too close to the wall of granite and players could be injured having to come to an abrupt halt from a full run.
Doretha and her litter of kids were waiting on us in the school parking lot. A black Jackson Creek Panther stretched across her chest, making it look like the cat on the sweatshirt was taking a bite out of her breast. She swiveled her hips and pointed at Emma. I laughed as Emma rolled her eyes.
Despite the restraints of a car seat, Ivy had managed to take her shoes off during the short ride, so I hurriedly put them back on her kicking feet then hoisted her to my hip. She was squirmy with excitement and clapped wildly at the sight of Doretha.
“Sweet precious baby.” Doretha kissed her on the forehead.
The sweet precious baby grew heavy as we tromped through the parking lot toward the gate. Energy blasted from the stadium like a fast-acting drug, seeping deep into my bones with each beat of the drum. A cornucopia of smells from the concession stand filled the night air, making me fully aware at some point during the game I was going to have to buy hot dogs, popcorn, and possibly cotton candy.
Near the concession stand, I spotted Greg and Sherry Hastings in line. I turned to Doretha. “Why don’t you take the kids on in and get a seat. I’ll be there in just a second.”
She gave me an odd look but didn’t question anything then herded the kids toward the bleachers. With Ivy still on my hip, I approached Greg and Sherry. After discovering he was a wife beater, I’d never understand why she was still with him. But I wasn’t exactly one to give advice in that department.
“Hey, Greg. Sherry,” I said, offering my best smile.
“Hey, girl. Haven’t seen you in ages.” Sherry reached out and lightly tickled Ivy’s chin. She yelled over the thumping music, leaning in closer to be heard. “How have you been?”
“Can’t complain. Y’all?”
She nodded all was well, but her face said otherwise. Although the bruises were hidden, they were there.
“Greg, I interviewed your father the other day about the ’seng market. He said you were picking for him now.”
He grunted as they moved up in line. “I help ’em out a little bit.”
I moved up with them. The closer we got to the window, the stronger the smells of Friday night games became. “I think you and Trish Givens used the same buyer.”
Sherry glanced at Greg, then at me. She reached out again and stroked Ivy’s hair. “Wasn’t that her mother? I didn’t know she dug ’seng.”
“I saw her some over at the metal shop,” Greg said.
My arms ached from the twenty pounds I wasn’t used to carrying. I shifted her on my hip. “That would be Tiny Cormack’s place?”
Greg chomped on a piece of gum like he was growing bored. “Yeah. Tiny Cormack.”
He stepped up to the co
ncession window then ordered two hot dogs all the way, an order of fries, and two bottled waters. He seemed in no hurry to return to our conversation.
“Hey, Greg, mind if I come by one evening next week to talk about the ‘’seng market? The poaching is heating up again.”
Shrugging, he showed way more interest in the fixing of his hot dogs than discussing ginseng. “I guess. We ain’t had much of a poaching problem this year though, so I don’t know why you need to talk to me.”
Sherry sidled beside me so she didn’t have to scream. “We’ll be home later tomorrow if you want to come over then.”
For a moment, I considered canceling our hiking trip. I’d be too tired to even think about interviewing anyone afterward. Still balanced on my hip, Ivy was growing heavy, and restless. Canceling wouldn’t be fair to Cole and Emma. They’d given enough, including peace of mind, to Trish’s murder. They didn’t need to give up another day as a family too.
“Can’t do it tomorrow. We’re hiking Porter’s Peak.”
Greg handed Sherry a hot dog and drink. “You still have our number, don’t you?” she asked me.
“I do. I’ll call first of the week.”
She nodded before Greg tugged her toward the bleachers. Knowing what I knew about him now, I despised every movement. I saw a controlling cowardly sonofabitch in his every breath.
Whether he was a sonofabitch enough to kill Trish was the question.
I joined my crew in the stands. Emma had directed our entourage where to sit according to where her friends were seated. Close enough, yet not so close we would embarrass her. She craned her neck looking for her “date.”
The Friday night home games had become a ritual, but this was the first that I had a toddler in tow. I was suddenly aware of the steepness of the concrete stands and how the crowd moved around one another. And now very afraid of letting Ivy out of my sight, or even off my lap for that matter.
She bounced up and down in my lap to the rhythm of the marching band and clapped her chubby hands. Emma elbowed my arm, lobbing her head to one side in a not-so nonchalant manner. “There he is,” she mouthed.
Tell Me No Lies (An Ava Logan Mystery Book 1) Page 12
