“I started reading about how economic systems can collapse, and we had some of the warning signs. I love Mathews. I love the people and the town and the island, and I didn’t want to see that happen here, but you can drive over the bridge and see for yourself how close we came to being a ghost town. So I read up on recession-proof businesses. Guess what’s number one on that list?”
I looked up from my scribbling. “That makes total sense.”
“Doesn’t it?” She thumped a fist on the table. “And there wasn’t a club around here. I thought I’d found the key to saving the whole damned town, and Dorothy Scott and her old band of bats decided they wouldn’t have it. Look around. I’m a woman. I’m not in this to demean women, and I’m not ‘peddling smut,’ either. The girls don’t look any different on stage than most of them do when they go to the beach, and the waitresses are dressed in Hooters uniform knockoffs. Though, Dorothy’d probably pitch a fit if Hooters wanted to come to Mathews, too.”
I looked at the stage, where a new dancer in a neon pink bikini and fabulous black patent Louboutins (I had that pair at home) strutted toward the pole.
She jumped and grabbed it, flipping upside down and curling her legs around before she arched her back and reached her arms over her head.
“Damn. That looks like something out of Cirque du Soleil,” I said.
“Exactly!” Bobbi Jo nodded. “There are so many women around here with so much talent. Becca there studied dance at RAU for four years. But when nobody’s going to the ballet, the ballet can’t pay new dancers, right? She came home and moved in with her momma. She was working at the 7-Eleven, for Pete’s sake. Now, she’s doing what she loves and she makes enough to have bought her own house last month.”
“And some killer shoes,” I mumbled, scribbling. This story was fast becoming more about what Bobbi Jo was trying to do for the town and how her club was different than about the showdown in her parking lot.
“So, it looks like you’re definitely helping the economy, but you’re not in Mathews,” I said.
She sat back in her chair, frustration plain on her face. “Unfortunately, thanks to Miss Dorothy and her friends, I am not. We must have had ten town hall meetings last summer, and no matter how much I tried to explain or what I argued, she convinced damn near every woman in the county that their husbands were going to run off with my dancers if they allowed the club. First off, more than half the dancers are married. Second, I have a way stricter contact policy than the state. They can’t even grab the girls’ hands or give them money. That’s what the pickle jar is for.”
“Have any of the other women in the county actually been here?”
“You are the first female non-employee to darken my door since I opened. I wish I could get them to come see that I’m not threatening their marriages, but fear-mongering is a powerful tool.”
“Indeed it is.”
Sasha stopped at my elbow and laid a huge platter of barbecue chicken in the middle of the table, then a basket brimming with baked beans, coleslaw, pickles, and cornbread in front of each of us. My stomach roared.
Bobbi Jo giggled. “Don’t be shy. Dig in.”
Sasha handed me a fork and I scooped beans into my mouth. They tasted like they’d been smoked, with just the right hint of sweet in the sauce.
“Oh, my,” I said, smiling at Bobbi Jo.
“It’s good, right?”
“Indeed.”
It was all good. The cornbread was the kind of crisp on the outside and moist on the inside that can only be achieved with the right recipe and a cast iron skillet, and the chicken really was magical. The pickles weren’t standard-issue, either. Sweet and hot, they were addictive. I emptied my cup of them in half a minute and Bobbi Jo offered me hers.
“My grandmomma’s recipe. Dill, sugar, and jalapenos.”
Stuffed, I pushed my plate away and turned back to my notes.
“So, what kind of money are you making here? And how much has the county benefitted from it?”
“We clear about a thousand a night on the weekends after everyone’s paid, and probably two-thirds of that during the week,” she said. “That’s twice what we made when we opened, and it goes up every month. I paid five grand in taxes last month.”
“Seems a shame you can’t have that money going to your hometown.”
“I buy everything I can from Mathews. All the vegetables we serve in the summer come from the county. The baskets are from a local weaver. I’m trying.”
I jotted that down.
“It was nice to meet you, Bobbi,” I said, putting my notebook away. “I have to pitch this to my editor, but I’m sure it will fly. Do you have a card, just in case I have more questions when I start writing?”
She stood with me and pulled a business card out of her hip pocket. “Thank you.”
“Thanks for talking to me. And feeding me. I’ll be in touch.”
She turned toward the kitchen with a wave and I watched her go, impressed with her business savvy and her dedication to the town.
It didn’t occur to me to ask her about moonshine until I was halfway back to Mathews.
10.
Mismatched
The last of the daylight faded as I reached the turn to the freeway, the budding trees disappearing into the night. My Blackberry buzzed as I flicked my turn signal on, and I stopped in the turn lane to fish it out of my bag. Parker.
“Hey, are you still in Tidewater?” he asked.
“Just now heading home,” I said. “What’s up?”
“I’m at Tony’s, and Ashton asked me to call you. She wants to talk to you. Can you turn around and come by here?”
Hot damn. Maybe I’d built up good karma, working while I was sick.
“On my way,” I said, swinging the car back onto the main road.
I hurried across the bridge, my chat with Bobbi Jo coloring the island in a new light. Five grand a month in tax revenue. And all those guys going into the club every night. It seemed like the perfect save for a place that could use some recession-proof income. Shame it didn’t work.
Stopping outside the crowded gate to the Okerson house, I cringed when three mics appeared in my face as soon as I rolled my window down. The press corps fired questions so fast and loud no one in the house could hear me on the intercom. I knew the look on the reporters’ faces too well: they had been stonewalled by both families all weekend and were getting desperate. From the questions I got, they thought I was Sydney’s mother. Did I look old enough to have a teenage daughter? I decided to brush that off with the darkness as an excuse.
I grabbed my Blackberry out of the cup holder and called Parker back.
“I’m trapped at the gate, and the wolves out here are hungry,” I said.
“On it,” he said. “Try not to let anyone in with you.”
As the gate inched open, I glanced around the media throng. “A person would need titanium cojones to sneak onto Tony Okerson’s property. Especially today. But I’ve seen stranger,” I said. When the gap was wide enough to slide my car through, I gunned the engine, watching the rearview mirror as the gate closed behind me. “I don’t think anyone hitchhiked.”
“Good,” Parker said.
I stopped in front of the house and clicked off the call. Parker stepped out the front door.
“Thanks for coming.”
“Are you kidding? Thanks for calling. What’s going on now?”
He swiped a hand down over his face, his fingers muffling the first part of his reply. “Ashton is…not well. She…well, I’ll let her tell you. They loved your first write-up. They trust you, and not just because I said so. You earned it.” He stepped aside and waved me toward the door. “Go on in. She’s in the living room.”
“You’re not staying?”
“I have to go pick Mel up for dinner. If I leave right now I’ll only be really late, not unforgivably late.”
I nodded. “Thanks, Parker. Y’all have fun.”
I turned for the door
, but his voice stopped me. “Hey, Clarke? I’m not sure how you can help them, but they could sure use it if there’s a way.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He waved and walked toward his BMW motorcycle, strapping his red helmet in place and disappearing down the drive. I opened the storm door, using a knee to keep the dog inside and grabbing his collar as I stepped around him. He pawed my shin and licked my free hand.
“Hey, boy.” I ruffled the fur behind his ears. He whined and craned his neck to look out the door.
“He misses TJ.” The comment choked off at the end, and I spun to find Tony coming out of the study. He shut the door behind him, but I caught a glimpse of the far wall, dotted with trophy shelves and framed news stories.
“I’m sure he’s not alone,” I said.
“He is not.” Tony cleared his throat and blinked a few times. “I owe you my gratitude for the story you did. A couple of the skeezier TV outfits have tried to make something out of nothing here, but everyone else seems to be following your lead, and I appreciate your help making this easier for my family to handle. Grant was right. Spin is everything.”
I smiled, glad he thought I had helped.
“You spent your entire career building a practically untarnishable image, Tony. I’m…” I sighed. “I’m just so damned sorry. And I hate that the press is camped outside your driveway while you grieve.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Goes with the territory. The NFL was awfully good to my family.”
“Parker said Ashton wanted to talk to me?”
He waved toward the back of the house. “She’s in there. Thanks for coming out.”
“Anytime.”
He opened the front door, pulling a leash off the hook next to it and clipping it onto the dog’s collar. “We’re going to get out of here for a while.”
I paused to glance over the photos in the hallway: the girls, in matching dresses on first bikes, ponies, and the Dumbo ride at Disney World. TJ in various football uniforms, posing with the ball up like so many photos I’d seen of his father. His smile was always just a twitch away from a laugh, his eyes happy. I fished a notebook and pen from my bag and jotted that down.
I found Ashton on the sofa. At least, I was pretty sure it was Ashton. In the space of two days, she seemed to have dropped fifteen pounds, and she didn’t have them to lose in the first place. She looked haunted.
The woman next to her had long, dark hair and hollows under her eyes that almost matched Ashton’s. This had to be Sydney Cobb’s mother.
The sliding doors on both ends of the living room’s glass wall stood open, letting the sound and smell of the ocean inside. It was downright tranquil, save for the heavy sadness in the room.
I took a deep breath. “Mrs. Okerson?”
Ashton turned. “Nichelle!” She bounced off the couch with energy that so mismatched her haggard look it was creepy. Crossing the room in five long strides, she pulled me into a hug. “Thank you so much for the stories you did about my boy,” she said, her words muffled by my shoulder and her sobs. “They’re beautiful.”
I patted her back and murmured thanks for talking to me, my eyes on the tears spilling down the other woman’s cheeks.
Ashton let go of me and turned to her companion. “Nichelle, this is Tiffany.”
“Sydney’s mother,” I said, stepping toward the couch and offering a hand.
“I was. I am,” Tiffany’s face crumpled. “Am I?”
I swallowed against a lump in my throat. The anguish on her face would haunt my dreams for weeks, I was certain.
“Sit down,” Ashton said. “Can I get you anything?”
Sinking into the cushions opposite them, I smiled and shook my head. “I’m still full from dinner, but thank you.”
A piece of driftwood on the end table caught my eye. “Heaven is a little closer in a house by the sea,” it read, the letters burned across it in script.
I closed my eyes for a long blink, clicking out my pen. “Parker said y’all wanted to talk to me about something?”
The exchanged a look that radiated subtext. Uh-oh.
“You can’t be mad at Grant,” Ashton began.
“Mad?”
“He explained that you have a theory.”
He what?
“Oh? Why should that make me mad?” I was impressed with my ability to keep my voice even. Grant Parker was a dead man. He did not come tell the parents I thought these kids hadn’t killed themselves. I didn’t have any more proof of that than the sheriff had that they did. What the hell did he think that would do, except cause pain?
“Now, we told him our theory first.” Ashton put up both hands.
“Your theory?” Hang on. My inner Lois bounced. “Does it not match the sheriff’s theory?”
“That’s why we asked you to come. Our babies did not do this.”
I hauled in a deep breath.
“What makes you say that?” I poised my pen.
“TJ was a happy kid,” Ashton said.
Well, yeah. That’s what I thought, but Sheriff Zeke didn’t agree.
“Sydney was left-handed,” Tiffany muttered, almost too quiet for me to hear.
My eyes snapped to her.
“Come again, ma’am?”
“She was left-handed. The note wasn’t her handwriting. It was a good copy of it. Almost too good. But it wasn’t her.”
Hot damn. I scribbled down the new information. That was something I could work with.
“Did you tell Sheriff Waters that, Mrs. Cobb?”
“Of course I did. He smiled and said he’d take it under advisement.” She looked up, her dark eyes windows to the gaping wound on her heart. “Look, Miss, we don’t mean any disrespect. Zeke Waters is a good man, and he’s a good sheriff. Fair. Sensible. But he thinks we’re crazy. Maybe we are. But my Sydney did not write that note. And Ashton’s baseball player friend said you didn’t think the sheriff was right, either.”
I sighed, keeping my eyes on my notes.
Parker hadn’t told them anything that wasn’t true. I knew he shared my suspicion about TJ, and now the girl’s mother was sitting here saying her daughter hadn’t written the suicide note the sheriff was using as his proof that her death was open and shut.
But what could I do about it? Either there was a bonafide serial killer in bitty little Mathews, and more lives were at risk, or someone had a vendetta against TJ and Sydney, and they were going to get away with murder.
I raised my eyes to meet Ashton’s.
“Grant told me you’ve done investigative work on stories before,” she said.
Seriously. He was at least looking at a swift kick in the ass. I did not want this woman thinking I could save the day when Zeke didn’t want to talk about this and I wasn’t at all sure I could get to the bottom of it.
“I have, but…” I searched for the right words. “Mrs. Okerson, this is a small town. It’s an entirely different world than what I’m used to covering. I don’t know anyone here.”
“I understand that. I don’t, either, really. Tony and I keep to ourselves. TJ was the one who had all the friends.” Her voice broke and she curled her arms around her shoulders, like she could physically hold herself together. “Why would someone do this to my baby?”
Ashton buried her head in her knees and sobbed, and I pinched my lips together, studying them. I couldn’t say no. These women were grieving the loss of their children, and had no one else to take their suspicions to. Monster exclusive notwithstanding, I had a personal reason for wanting to help, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it. Having the parents involved and on the record would help me get it right.
“I will do everything I can.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “I’m going to need you to be completely honest with me.”
They both nodded.
“I mean it,” I said. “This won’t be an easy conversation. You can’t fudge facts to make the kids look good. Nobody’s perfect, and if we’re reall
y trying to find a killer, you’re going to have to start by telling me who had a reason to hate your children.”
They exchanged a glance. Tiffany spoke first.
“There were probably lots of little girls who were jealous of Syd,” she said. “She was a good girl, and a sweet kid, but everyone has their bitchy side, I guess. She wasn’t best friends with everyone, you know?”
I jotted that down, catching Tiffany’s gaze.
“Who was the girl they picked on?” I asked.
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“There’s one in every high school class in America,” I said. “The pretty girls always have a girl they make fun of. Someone who wants to be part of their group, but doesn’t fit in.”
Tiffany appeared to consider that for a long minute.
“Evelyn,” Ashton finally said. “Evelyn Sue Miney.”
I wrote the name down. “Tell me about her. Typical outcast?”
Tiffany shook her head. “Evelyn was Sydney’s friend.”
Ashton poked her gently in the ribs. “Tiff, she said we had to be honest. Evelyn and Syd hadn’t been friends in a long while. And she had such a crush on TJ.”
I kept my eyes on Tiffany as I put a star by the girl’s name. A crush on the boy, a rivalry with the girl. Sounded promising.
“Evelyn and Syd were best friends when they were little girls,” Tiffany said, dropping her head into her hands and sighing. “They did everything together. Evelyn spent as much time at my house as she did at her own. She couldn’t have done this.”
“Why weren’t they friends anymore?”
“They just grew apart,” Tiffany said.
The look Ashton shot her told me there was no “just” to it.
“When?”
“Last year. The summer before. I didn’t notice at first, Syd was always so busy with cheerleading and her friends. But I started to notice I hadn’t seen Evelyn in a long time.”
“She’s not a cheerleader?” I asked.
Small Town Spin Page 10
