“Depends entirely on what you’re poking around in. Why do you want the ABC police?”
“Out in the sticks? Why do you think?”
“That’s what I was afraid of.” He sighed. “I swear, you need a vest. And a gun. Folks who run illegal booze like their firearms.”
“Noted.”
I hung up and dialed the numbers he’d given me, but got voicemail both times. I didn’t leave messages. I’d try again Monday when I could put them on the spot.
Turning to my computer, I wrote up the two stories I had for metro. I finished the second and opened my email program before I realized who I was sending my copy to for approval.
“Aw, hell.” I attached the files to an email to Shelby. That was just what I needed. “I ought to add the Twilight Zone theme to my iTunes,” I said as I hit send. “First Parker’s offering to be my gofer, and now I miss Les.”
“Your piece on the Okerson kid this morning wasn’t your best work.” It took me a second to realize that the voice came from behind me and was male, not Shelby prattling inside my head.
I turned the chair slowly.
Spence leaned against the wall behind my little ivory cubicle, arms folded over his chest and a studiously disdainful look on his face.
I’d never had reason to be crossways with our sports editor, who was generally full of witty commentary and whatever baked goods Eunice had brought in, though you couldn’t tell it by looking at his lanky frame.
“Good morning to you, too, Spence,” I said. “You have any constructive criticism to offer, or did you come in on Saturday just to be insulting?”
“TJ Okerson was left-handed, which made him a more formidable pitcher,” he said. “That’s worth mentioning in a story where you interviewed the baseball coach.”
“No one told me that,” I said.
“A sports reporter would know it.”
“And the sports editor would, too.” I leaned back in my chair. “I’m tired. I’m still sick. And it’s been one hell of a long week, here, Spence. If you’ve got something to say, just say it. You want my story?”
“It’s not your story. Or, it shouldn’t be your story.”
“Dead people are kind of my thing.” I paused. “Uh. You know what I mean.”
“Sports are my thing. It’s my whole life outside my wife and kid. This is the biggest sports story to come out of Virginia in half a decade, and it gets assigned to the crime desk? What kind of bullshit is that?”
“The kind of bullshit you’ll have to take up with Bob.” I closed my laptop and put it in my bag. “I didn’t ask for this assignment.”
“I know. Your good friend Parker asked you to take it. As a favor. If he worked for me, I’d have canned him. But our big shot star columnist reports to Bob.” He sneered.
I stared, dumbfounded. I had never heard Spencer Jacobs sound the least bit annoyed with…anything. And I’d worked with him for almost eight years.
“If it’s that big a deal to you, seriously, talk to Bob.”
“I was told pretty explicitly yesterday that I was to get you what you need to do a good job,” Spence said, pushing off the wall. “So here’s what you need: a background in sports journalism and some better interview skills.”
“I’m sorry, have we left the newsroom and gone back to seventh grade? I’d feel sorry for you, except you’re being an asshat. So go be one somewhere else. If you want to help, I’m happy to take suggestions and tips, and more than happy to share credit for the story. But if you’re going to hurl insults and be petty because they picked me and not you? You can bite me. And you should go hang out with Shelby. Y’all have something in common.”
I stepped around him and hauled my bag onto my shoulder, striding to the elevator. Technically, I should have waited for Shelby to okay my stories, but I was beat, and Spence had shaken me way more than I wanted him to see.
Parker poked his head into the elevator.
“You have a lead?”
“Yes. A hot one. On a nap. Also, steer clear of Spence. Someone pissed in his Wheaties, and he seems to think it was us.” I punched the button for the garage.
“Nice.” He stepped back as the doors started to close. “Feel better. Call me if you need any help.”
“You have yourself a side job, sir.”
The doors whispered shut and I sagged against the wall. Some days, an eight-to-five desk job sounded better than others.
8.
Sins of the fathers
Joey’s minestrone was even better the second day. I laid the bowl in the dishwasher after lunch, and settled myself on the couch for a nap. But sleep eluded me with all the nonsense running around my head.
I could sort of go with the sheriff on Sydney’s death. I remembered being a teenager. Overly emotional the-world-has-ended came from way simpler stuff than your boyfriend dying.
But why would TJ do it? That was a puzzle with a billion jagged pieces, only half of which I had to work with. I kept going back to Parker’s words from that morning, but I couldn’t pin down why it was bugging me so much.
Was Aaron right? Was I making something out of nothing because the case involved young people?
Or was Emily right? Was I projecting personal memories into a mysterious suicide? I tried to be honest with myself about both, but kept returning to the summer of the jumpers. I hadn’t prowled around Richmond thinking those kids had been pushed. There was something different about this story. I just needed to figure out what.
The moonshine was different. It had been at both scenes. Sheriff Zeke seemed pretty sure both of the dead kids had been drinking it. Was it a bad batch? Possibly. But no one else was sick, or dead. Wait.
What if there was something in it? I mean, who could taste anything mixed with thousand-proof rotgut?
My inner Lois liked the sound of that. Especially if Luke “Waiting for TJ to Get Hurt” Pitcher had been at the party.
I kicked my blanket into the floor, sat up, and grabbed the phone.
“What’s up?” Parker asked when he picked up.
“I can’t rest, so we might as well work,” I said. “This thing out in Tidewater is making me slightly nuts.”
“You can say that again.”
I’d been tiptoeing around this with Parker for days, but I needed an answer.
“Parker, you knew this kid. You know his family. Level with me. Does your gut say he overdosed on Vicodin?”
He didn’t answer for a long minute.
“It does not,” he said finally. “But that sounds crazy, doesn’t it? The bottle was empty. The cops say it’s open and shut. Tony said they told him they’re just waiting for the toxicology results so they can close the file.”
“I don’t think it’s crazy,” I said. “I’ve covered teen suicides before. This doesn’t fit. The cops are telling me it’s open and shut, too, but I can’t let it go.”
His voice perked up. “What else is there to do?”
“Play Nancy Drew.”
“Want a Hardy Boy?”
I laughed. “I think I might.”
“What can I do?”
“See if you can get anything else out of Tony and Ashton,” I said. “I could go talk to them, but they’ll speak freely to you. I want to know if TJ had any enemies. I know he was a popular kid. The guy from the local paper said he was the homecoming king. But someone always hates those kids, you know? I want to know who. If you can find out anything from them about a kid named Luke from the baseball team, that would be damned handy.”
“I can do that.”
Bob’s orders from the staff meeting popped into my thoughts. “I also need an invite to the funeral. I like Tony and Ashton and I want to pay my respects, plus Bob is set on having an exclusive with the networks crawling all over the island.”
“No problem. Come with me—Mel is doing something else Monday.”
Something else besides going to his friend’s kid’s funeral with him? Really? I kept quiet about that. “Okay, sure
. Thanks.”
“Listen, Clarke, I know you have this whole sort of Lois Lane thing working with these big exclusives,” he said. “If I’m being honest, that’s why I called you with this in the first place. I knew it would get me on Spence’s shit list. I’m not stupid. But, I also knew if there was anything amiss, you were the person who’d find it. I want Tony to know what happened to his son. Whatever that turns out to be.”
“Me, too. Though I wish you would’ve warned me about Spence. He was well and truly pissed. Caught me totally blindside.”
“Don’t worry about Spence. I’ll handle him.”
“Hard to ignore him when he sneaks up behind me hurling insults. I have a feeling Shelby’s got a new best friend.”
“She won’t look twice at him. He’s got a wife and a kid and he can’t get her promoted.”
“I was hoping having to fill in for Les would get her off my ass. Why can’t she decide she wants to be a feature reporter? Or, I don’t know, cover the schools? She’s not a bad writer. I’d just like for it to be someone else’s turn in her crosshairs for a while. Especially if Spence is going to be all butthurt over this story assignment.”
“I understand that.” There was a commotion in the background and Parker muffled the handset for a minute.
My mind wandered back to moonshiners. Who could I talk to about that? If I could find out who was making the stuff, maybe I could find out who bought it and took it to the parties.
Lyle seemed to know the town he covered well, but I didn’t want to tip my hand to another reporter, and I certainly didn’t want the TV folks getting wind of what I was working on. The old man at the antique store with his adorable accent and fantastic treasures floated through my thoughts. I bet he knew everything that went on in Mathews. And he liked to talk.
“Sorry about that. FedEx,” Parker said. “Anything else you want me to find out? I’m heading to Tidewater.”
“I’m going to drive back out there myself. I just thought of someone who might be able to help me with an angle I’m working.”
“Care to share?”
“Not yet. Let me see if it goes anywhere first.”
“I’ll let you know what I find out at Tony’s.”
“Thanks, Parker.”
“Thank you. Go get ’em, Lois.”
I dialed Joey’s number on my Blackberry after I got on the Interstate. I considered calling Kyle Miller, former love of my life and current Mr. Possibly as well as ATF supercop, but decided to wait until I had something more to tell him. Kyle had an irritating habit of blowing off my suspicions, and I wasn’t in the mood for a fight.
“You feeling any better?”
Good Lord. Just Joey’s voice on the phone made my toes tingle. Part of me was afraid of his questionable occupation. Another part was just downright chicken of falling so hard for a guy it could never work with. Yet I couldn’t stay away from him. Oy.
“That soup is totally magical. Your mom should sell it at health food stores.” It was kind of funny to think about Joey’s mom. I hadn’t ever considered Captain Mystery in a family setting. “I’m probably seventy-five percent today, and I’m on my way back to Mathews.”
“Something new? Besides the other dead kid I saw in your story this morning? TV hasn’t shut up about that all day.”
I knew that, and I was hoping that going between broadcast times would keep me clear of most of the cameras. Though I was slightly worried they’d find the adorable little antique store and its owner as interesting as I did.
“Sort of. I left something out of the story and I’m wondering if you might be able to find me a lead on it.”
“Me? What is it?”
“You know anything about moonshine?”
He chuckled. “Like, corn whiskey, moonshine? Only that it tastes God-awful.”
I huffed out a short breath, noticing I could breathe through one nostril for the first time in days. “Seriously? The Internet says some of this is major interstate money. Especially around here where there are still so many places you can’t buy booze on Sundays. You have to know something. Or someone who does.”
“Why are you poking around moonshiners?” He switched gears without answering, which didn’t escape my notice.
“Because the dead kids were drinking moonshine. Or, the girl was. TJ might have been. I’m working on that. Aside from the possibility that someone could have spiked their booze with poison, I read that if the stills aren’t properly cleaned or any one of a billion things goes wrong with the process, moonshine can kill people. I found a crap ton of stories from the twenties and thirties about people going blind and dropping dead in speakeasies.”
“I guess that’s a hazard of drinking it. Why would a bunch of kids mess with that stuff? It has a nasty kick.”
“My first guess is because they want to drink and they’re underage. Which stores care about, but moonshiners don’t. The ABC police have been cracking down on underage sales all over the state lately. There’s only so much beer they can swipe from their folks before they get in trouble. So they get the moonshine because it’s cheap and readily available. Especially if it’s being made right there on the island.”
“You could be onto something. Do me a favor?”
“If I can.”
“Watch it. If the wrong person gets word you’re trying to prove their rotgut killed these kids, you could wind up in real danger.”
“I would blow you off, but that hasn’t ended well for me, historically. So I’ll be careful.”
“Thanks. I’d tell you to drop it, but that doesn’t ever work. So, you know, call me if you need me. Try not to get shot.”
“Thanks. I’ll do what I can. Call me if you find anything?”
His voice dropped. “I’ll take any excuse.”
My pulse fluttered as I hung up, pulling the car off the freeway at West Point. The drive seemed to go quicker every time.
By the time I turned into the antique store parking lot, I had a pretty good mental list of questions—hopefully enough roundabout ones to avoid suspicion.
I counted three other cars, but no news trucks. I stepped in the front door and smiled at the man with thick bifocals behind the ornate old cash register. It was the kind with big round buttons on individual levers and a pull handle that totaled sales and opened the drawer. And it worked—he rang up a glass perfume bottle as I walked into the shop.
He turned to another customer, explaining the history of a gorgeous footstool (it once graced the foot of the bed in the biggest suite at the island’s only hotel, which had burned down years before) to a fifty-something woman in designer jeans and a Louis Vuitton belt that matched the dark honey color of her gold-tipped Chanel flats. She forked over cash and left with the stool, and he turned to me.
“You don’t look two breaths from the grave anymore, Missy,” he said. “You found Zeke, I take it?”
“I did. Thank you for your help.”
“You didn’t tell me you were a reporter.” He pursed his lips. I smiled. News about strangers probably zipped through Mathews faster than Speedy Gonzalez on uppers. “Been reporters crawling all over since.”
I twisted my mouth to one side. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see where my job was pertinent to our conversation.”
“Oh, don’t apologize to me.” He chuckled. “There’s lots of folks complaining about it, but me? I’ve done more business the last three days than I have all month. People go crazy over famous folks. Everyone in three states who ever watched a Skins game is looking for a genuine article from the town where Tony Okerson lives.”
I smiled. “Well, I’m glad it was good for something.” I put out a hand. “I’m Nichelle.”
He nodded. “Elmer. Elmer Daughtry. I don’t suppose you came looking for a chair or a chat about the weather.” He turned to the secretary behind the register, deep mahogany with detail work that looked like it might have been carved by Thomas Jefferson himself, and poured two glasses of iced tea. He handed me one as h
e settled on a tall chair, gesturing to a backless barstool between the door and my side of the counter. “What do you want to know today?”
I perched on the stool and sipped my tea, sizing Elmer up. He was sweet, and he wasn’t mad about the press being in town, which was helpful. But he was shrewd, too. Maybe my roundabout questions weren’t the best approach.
“Honestly? I’m looking for information on moonshine, Elmer. And I figure you probably know everything there is to know about the county. So I thought this might be a good place to start.” I pulled a pen and notebook out of my bag.
“How do you know I’m not a moonshiner?” His face was so serious my stomach wrung.
“You don’t seem like the type?” I said, my voice going up at the end and turning it into a question.
He laughed. “You have a good gauge for that type, do you, city gal?”
I sighed. “No.”
“Well, you’re right that it’s not me. I drank my share of it when I was a younger man, but this is about as hard as my drinking gets these days.” He brandished the tea glass. “I might know where to get some, though.”
“I’m not interested in buying any.” Or, I wasn’t until he said that. “I want to know who’s making it. I hear there are a few stills on the island.”
“You hear right. There’s families around these parts been into moonshine since prohibition.”
“That’s fascinating. How do they keep from getting caught?”
“They hide. Some have so many generations of kids spread all over the county, if there’s a whisper of the law coming by to check a still, it gets empty quick.”
“Surely the police must be able to tell if it’s been used recently?” I raised an eyebrow.
“I expect they can. Don’t do them no good if they don’t catch you in the act. Or catch you with a truckload of shine.” He paused and gave me a once-over. “You work in Richmond. I seen some other stuff you wrote about in the paper. You got friends in law enforcement. They can’t tell you this?”
“Not like you can,” I said simply.
“Want the local color, huh?”
Small Town Spin Page 8
