by Gayle Leeson
I glanced into the dining room, where Calvin Dougherty and Chad Thomas were smiling and nodding.
At least, I hoped there weren’t many other Winter Garden residents that ready and willing to be fooled.
• • •
After work, I didn’t even go home first. I drove to the Fairbanks Hotel in Abingdon, where Walter Jackson was staying. It wasn’t one of the fancier hotels in town, but it was clean and reasonably priced. The automatic front doors whooshed open, and I stepped into the cool lobby.
A desk clerk looked up from his computer. “Good afternoon. Welcome to the Fairbanks. How may I help you?”
“I’m waiting for a friend.” I took a seat on the sofa. Now that I was here at the hotel, I wasn’t sure how to approach Mr. Jackson. I mean, if I had the clerk call up to Mr. Jackson’s room and tell him I was here to see him, what would I say?
Um, hi, could you call Walter Jackson’s room and let him know Amy Flowers is here to see him? What? He’s asking why I want to talk with him? Um . . . I’d like to ask him if he’s guilty of murder. By the way, do you have any complimentary water? Thanks.
Maybe this had been a bad idea.
Maybe? The little voice inside my head taunted. It was definitely a bad idea.
But now if I simply got up and left, I’d look like an idiot. Should I look at my phone and pretend I got a text from my so-called friend?
What would Ryan say if I got killed here? What would Mom say? And how sad it would be for Aunt Bess to have to add me to her People I’ve Outlived Pinterest board.
Okay, this was stupid. No matter what the desk clerk—someone I’d never met and would likely never see again—thought, I was leaving. I dropped my phone into my purse and stood.
The front doors whooshed.
“Why, Ms. Flowers. What a nice surprise.”
Naturally, it was Walter Jackson.
“Hi, Mr. Jackson.”
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Actually, I’d like to talk with you. Do you have a minute?”
“Of course. Shall we go into the restaurant and have a coffee?”
I nodded. “That would be nice.”
As I accompanied him to the hotel’s restaurant, I reflected that he looked just as I’d remembered—white hair, slightly stooped shoulders, thin, average height, carried himself with a humble dignity. There was no way this man could be a killer. I hoped.
We sat at a table near the bar and ordered coffee. The waitress brought us our drinks, told us to let her know if we needed anything, and then returned to the bar.
“So what was it you wanted to speak with me about, Ms. Flowers?”
“On the morning that we first met, you were searching for Mr. Landon—or as we now know, Mr. Carver. I simply wondered if you’d found him.”
He raised his bushy eyebrows.
“I’m not here to accuse you of anything, Mr. Jackson. It just seemed to me that it was really important to you that you talk with Stu Landon Carver . . . and I hope you were able to do that.”
“I did get the opportunity to talk with Stu.”
“Good.” I sipped my coffee. “I’m glad.”
“So am I. Although, I have to admit, I wish my timing had been better. But I did get to make my peace with the man.”
I merely nodded. I wasn’t going to prompt him to tell me anything else. I’d already decided that coming here was a mistake. Talk about your bad timing.
Mr. Jackson, on the other hand, was in a talkative mood.
“I’m going to tell you a story, young lady. And I hope it will be a lesson to you.”
I said a silent prayer that it wouldn’t begin, “Once upon a time, there was a young lady who poked her nose into other people’s business . . .”
It didn’t.
“Years ago—long before you were born, I’m sure—Stuart Carver and I worked together at a company that made pesticides. Stu was an entomologist with the company—Callicorp—and although I started out as an accountant, I moved up the ranks to chief financial officer and then vice president.”
“That’s impressive,” I said.
“Thank you. I’d like to say it was all due to my hard work and dedication, but there was more to it than that. I took shortcuts. I didn’t always behave with integrity. And that came back to bite me.”
I knew what he was talking about because Jackie and I had found the articles online, but I remained silent.
“You see, our company was known for being environmentally conscious and safe for bees while discouraging aphids, flies, and mosquitoes from eating crops,” he continued. “It was safe but it wasn’t as effective as the pesticides our competitors were using, and we were losing market share.”
The waitress returned to see if we were okay or if we’d decided we’d like to order something to eat.
“I’m fine,” said Mr. Jackson. “Ms. Flowers?”
“I’m okay too,” I said. “Thank you.”
Mr. Jackson drank his coffee and looked around the otherwise empty dining room until he was certain she was out of earshot.
“I authorized technicians to swap out one chemical in our pesticide for another—one that was cheaper for us to use and much more effective but that could be harmful to humans.” His lips curved into a small, sad smile. “But I think what bothered Stu about it most was that it was devastating to honeybees. Wherever the pesticide was sprayed, the bees either died or left.” He raised his eyes to mine. “I accepted a bribe to switch the two ingredients. I went to prison for eighteen years.”
For lack of anything better to say, I mumbled, “I’m sorry.”
“It was my mistake, and I paid for it. I didn’t have to serve the entire time, but I don’t want to discuss that. Suffice it to say, I came out of the experience a changed man.”
I nodded and took a sip of my coffee. It was bland.
“I didn’t come to Winter Garden to kill Stuart Landon Carver, Ms. Flowers. I came to apologize to the man. I hadn’t realized the magnitude of what I’d done until I had a while to really mull it over.”
“But why did you feel the need to apologize to Mr. Landon Carver?”
“I’ve actually felt the need to apologize to a number of people for what I did back then. With Stu, I felt that I owed him an apology for my flagrant disregard for his bees,” said Mr. Jackson. “Oh, they weren’t his bees, of course, but our pesticide certainly led to a marked decrease in the honeybee population. So much so that Stu felt that he had to dedicate the rest of his life to building it back up to the extent that he could.”
“That must be why he started all those hives when he moved to Winter Garden.”
“Indeed. He became consumed with repairing what he’d helped destroy.”
Chapter 12
After leaving Mr. Jackson, I got into the car and pulled up a cake recipe on my phone. I intended to make the cake to serve tomorrow and needed to go by the grocery store for some of the ingredients I didn’t have on hand. I noted the items I needed and headed for the store.
I couldn’t get what Mr. Jackson had told me out of my mind. He said he hadn’t come here for any sort of vengeance on Stu Landon. He’d had a lot of time to think in prison, and he’d sought out the man to apologize to him. He’d been looking for Stu on and off for several years.
So Stu had been right in his assumption that someone from Callicorp might come looking for him someday. But he’d been certain that when that day came, it would be by someone out for revenge. Was Mr. Jackson the person Stu had been afraid of? Or was there someone else—or more than one someone else—that Stu feared would harm him and his family? I knew from the article that Mr. Jackson wasn’t the only Callicorp executive to face ramifications from Stu’s whistle-blowing.
When I arrived at the grocery store, I was lucky enough to find a parking spot fairly close. Yes
, it would’ve been healthier for me to walk a longer distance, but I’d been on my feet most of the day and was glad for the serendipity that had made whatever car had been in this primo space leave just before I’d arrived.
As I was walking into the store, Fern Thomas was walking out.
“Oh, hi,” I said.
She looked vaguely confused.
“I’m Amy Flowers . . . of the Down South Café. You and your husband had lunch there on Monday?”
The fog lifted from Fern’s face, and she smiled. “Yeah. It’s nice to see you again.”
“You too. I’m sorry you weren’t able to come to lunch with your husband again today.”
The smile faded. “Chad was there to talk business with Mr. Dougherty. Chad doesn’t like for me to be around when he’s discussing business.”
Not for the first time this afternoon, I was at a loss for words. So I merely said, “Aw, it was probably boring stuff anyway, right?”
“Oh, no. If Chad found it important enough to talk about, then I doubt it was boring.”
“Well, hey, either way, if Mr. Dougherty finds gas reserves on your property, you’ll be a rich woman.” I forced a little laugh.
Fern did not laugh. She said, “Yes, Chad would be wealthy. He’d like that.”
Now it was my turn to look confused.
Seeing the incredulity on my face, Fern hastened to add, “He’s a good husband. He takes care of me and gives me just about anything a wife could want.”
“That . . . that’s nice,” I said. “Gee, I shouldn’t keep you any longer. I don’t want your groceries to spoil. I hope to see you back at the café again soon.”
“Me too.” She stood there looking rather lost for a second and then scurried on out into the parking lot.
I chose a shopping cart and strolled on through the store. It was apparently my day for odd encounters. Okay, so I’d invited the first weird chat, but this second one was even stranger and completely unexpected. What wife said her husband would be wealthy rather than they would be wealthy? Apparently, Fern Thomas.
I shook my head and concentrated on getting the ingredients I needed to make my chocolate pistachio pudding cake. I wanted to make the cake this evening, so I could take it in to work tomorrow morning.
While I was at the store, I picked up a few staples, replenished my supply of pet food, and browsed the magazines. The magazines that featured headlines like World’s Most Decadent Cheesecake and Lose Ten Pounds This Week on the same cover always made me smile. As if someone could buy the magazine, prepare and eat the cheesecake, and lose ten pounds in a week. Barring a tragic accident or a terrible illness, I didn’t think that was going to happen.
I paid for my groceries and was on my way out of the store when I saw Calvin Dougherty walking toward me.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Flowers. Do you have something there that you’re planning to offer for tomorrow’s special of the day?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “I am making a chocolate pistachio pudding cake to take in, though.”
“Sounds delicious. I’ll have to stop by.”
“Please do.”
“I’m trying to bring all of my Winter Garden contacts to the Down South Café. The ones who haven’t tried it yet are dutifully impressed, and the ones who’ve been there already know it’s the best place in the region to eat.” He patted his stomach.
I smiled but wondered why he appeared to be schmoozing me. “I appreciate that, Mr. Dougherty.” Since he might be fishing for information, I supposed I could do the same. “I saw that you had Chad Thomas in today.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Didn’t you find it odd that he didn’t have his wife join you?”
Mr. Dougherty rocked back on his heels. “I take it that Mr. and Mrs. Thomas have a—what’s the phrase I’m looking for—an old-fashioned relationship. He handles all the business affairs, and she is the dutiful homemaker. She keeps a lovely home. She really does.”
“Huh. And do you think there’s a natural gas preserve beneath their land?”
“I really couldn’t say. At this point, it’s all just speculation. We need to perform more tests.”
“But you must’ve seen something promising there,” I said. “I mean, you didn’t recommend further testing for our land.”
“Nope, I didn’t. That’s just the way it goes sometimes. You’ll see something in one plot of land and think you’ve hit the jackpot, but then you’ll test the plot next to it and find nothing.”
“I see. So it’s just the luck of the draw.”
“That’s it, Ms. Flowers. I’m sorry if you were disappointed.”
“Oh, I wasn’t. I wouldn’t want my home destroyed.” I smiled. “And, of course, Aunt Bess was relieved.”
He chuckled. “She was, wasn’t she? She’s a sweetheart.”
I agreed with him and then said I needed to get home and get started on my cake. He said he hoped to stop by and try a piece tomorrow, and I pressed the button on my key fob to unlock the car door.
I loaded the groceries into the car and called Sarah before I started home. She agreed to come over for homemade pizza and a game of Scrabble. I was glad. I’d like to get her take on Mr. Jackson.
• • •
Two hours later, Sarah and I were sitting at my kitchen table eating slices of ham pizza while puzzling over letters printed on small wooden tiles. We also had pita chips with hummus and a fruit tray, so we could sit there all night if we had to.
At the moment, my thoughts were divided between, one, what word I could make using the letters X, Z, Y, N, L, P, and H given the existing vowels on the board, and two, the possible duplicitous nature of Mr. Jackson. I was considering using my turn to exchange tiles, but I wasn’t ready to commit to that move yet. So I landed on the topic of Mr. Jackson.
I told Sarah how I’d gone to see him at his hotel.
She slowly lifted her head, eyes wide and mouth open. “You did what?”
“Yeah, I know. When I think about it now, it seems like a totally crazy thing to have done.”
“You think?”
I huffed. “Do you want to know what he said, or not?”
“Of course I do.”
“He said he came here to make amends with Stuart Landon, not to have it out with him.”
“And yet, Mr. Landon—Carver, whatever—is dead,” Sarah said. “He isn’t walking around with a new BFF.”
“I know, but don’t you think Mr. Jackson could’ve simply been in the wrong place—Winter Garden—at the wrong time—the day of Stu’s death?”
Sarah gave me a look that plainly said, Say that sentence over again to yourself.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “So he arrived the day Stu was murdered. He found him, made his peace with him—”
“And then disappeared to where the police couldn’t find him for two days.”
In frustration, I swiped a pita chip through the hummus. I bit the chip and debated this while I chewed.
I swallowed. “But Mr. Jackson didn’t know the police were searching for him. If he had, he might’ve been on his way to turn himself in instead of stopping by the Down South Café for breakfast. He didn’t appear to realize Stu was dead.”
“He doesn’t read the newspaper? Watch the news on TV? Why are you so determined that this man is innocent?”
Flipping my palms, I said, “I don’t know. I just feel in my gut that he didn’t do this. Do you ever get gut feelings about your clients at the law firm?”
“Sometimes. And they’re fifty-fifty. I’ve been shocked before at what some of Billy’s clients have been convicted of—and later confessed to—doing. Remember, Ann Rule refused to believe that Ted Bundy was guilty up until almost the very end.” Sarah pulled out her phone. “Here’s what I’m talking about.” She came around to my side of the table and place
d the phone between us.
She’d brought up an article written in The Washington Post in 2015 after Ann Rule’s death. In the article, Rule was quoted as having said in 1999 that people could completely fool you. Ms. Rule had been a cop and had years of education in psychology, but Ted Bundy’s mask had been perfect. She said it was scary that you could never be a hundred percent sure you knew someone.
“And it is scary, Amy. Some people really can make you believe anything they want you to. Please promise me you won’t seek this guy out again. He might appear to be a harmless little old man to you, but there’s a strong chance that he’s a killer. I don’t want you to be his next victim.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
She looked down at my tiles; picked up L, Y, N, and X; and made lynx. The X in lynx came under an A to make ax. The word began on a Triple Word Score space and wound up being worth fifty-one points, given the 9 points for ax. “You’re welcome.” She picked up her phone and returned to her chair.
“Thanks. That’s why you’re the Scrabble Queen.”
“You know it.” She popped a grape into her mouth and surveyed the board. “You gonna tell Ryan?”
“That you were whipping my butt in this game but then took mercy on me and helped me play catch-up?”
She arched a brow.
“Okay, no. Given your reaction, I’m definitely not going to tell Ryan that I went to talk with Mr. Jackson.”
She simply shook her head and ate a strawberry.
“And given your reaction, I won’t tell you the next time I do something crazy either,” I said.
She picked up a grape, threw it at me, and it hit me on the forehead. “Ow! What was that for?”
“How about this? Don’t do anything crazy!”
• • •
That night, I took a relaxing lavender-scented bubble bath. When I got out of the tub, I put on my favorite summer pajamas and snuggled into bed. I read a cooking magazine until my eyelids got heavy and I couldn’t concentrate on the words. Then I put the magazine on the bedside table, turned off the light, and went to sleep.
