“’Course. Second worst day of my life.” She gazed out the window to her front yard. “Day was just like any other. Got up and got to tending the house like I always did. That darn Jennings man came by the house ranting and raving how we’d stole his livelihood and such, so I did what I always did when that good for nothing harassed me.”
“What was that?”
“I got my shotgun and told him to get off my property or I’d shoot him dead.”
Belle gently nudged me with her elbow, but I refused to acknowledge her. I knew she’d make a face that would make me laugh.
“He thought you were trying to destroy his livelihood? I thought it was the other way around?”
“It was both. Clyde and me, we had us some good roosters, and our hens, they weren’t sliced liver neither, and we took care of our lot, fed them all natural and such. I guess you could say we were ahead of our time. But Jennings, he thought we was doing something illegal or…or that we had us some special relationship with the poultry company, but that ain’t how it worked. Like I said, we had ourselves a good lot, and the poultry company, they picked ours over his is all.”
“So, he was upset because you sold more poultry than he did?”
She nodded. “And eggs, but that wasn’t our big business. The meat, that’s where the money was, and we was selling more of it than Jennings. The poultry companies knew a good thing, and back then, they put their eggs all in one basket.” She laughed. “You know what I mean, right?”
I nodded. “So, what happened next?”
Belle stood and examined the books in the large book case.
“He left, and I went on with my day, making a run to the store and a few other things. I had me a doctor’s appointment late in the afternoon, and Clyde was going to a meeting with the poultry company up in Cumming to talk about adding to our contract. Said it would be an all day meeting, too. After that we played cards with some friends like we often did.”
I jotted that down, and Clara waited until I was finished.
“’Fore that Jennings came by, I let Jenny know I’d be stopping at the market.”
I interrupted her. “She was already here?”
She nodded. “Her and her friend. She worked summers on the farm, mostly cleaning the barn and the chicken coops. In fact, she’d done it just that day before. Sometimes she’d bring her friend Allison over the night before and hang out. She and her momma had a bit of a rough go there, and I think it was easier for her at the farm. Only worked twenty or so hours a week, but we paid her good. Better than minimum wage. I think around four dollars an hour?”
That definitely wasn’t good now a days, but back then it was likely fabulous. “I see, and you weren’t worried about Mr. Jennings harassing your niece?”
She contemplated that for a moment, and I noticed sadness flash across her face. “She could handle the old coot. She had before. But I don’t know, maybe I was wrong.”
“Do you think Buford Jennings killed your niece?”
She nodded. “At least I did.” She rubbed the side of her arm. “Nowadays, I ain’t so sure.”
“Why is that?”
She shrugged. “His feed conversion was low, and he’d lost his contract with the poultry company a few days before Jenny died. Man’s business was about under. Don’t see how killing her could a saved it.”
“But at the time you thought he was the killer?”
“Sure did. We thought he was trying to sabotage our control system, the one in the barn. We’d had some chicks die, and Clyde said the fans were broken, but that was impossible. We’d just installed them a little while earlier, and they were working fine. Come to find out they wasn’t broke. They were just disabled. Tampered with, the police said.”
“And you think he did it?”
“Dead chickens don’t make good meat, unless they’re already at the poultry plant, that is. And they don’t lay eggs, either. If we couldn’t produce, he’d a gladly stepped in and taken over for us. But, over the years we always had us some problems with those fans, and I never did say this to Clyde, but I think he was making them worse by always fiddling with them, you know what I mean? Not sure it was that Jennings after all.”
I nodded. “That makes sense. So, what’s changed your thoughts on him now, aside from that of course?” Buford Jennings’ alibi was slim at best. He claimed to be home alone, and there wasn’t anyone that could back up his story.
“Maybe it’s old age and a softer heart. I’m not sure, but Jennings’ farm went under a few months after Jenny died, so I don’t think he could a saved it by murdering my niece.”
That didn’t mean he hadn’t killed her out of rage, but I didn’t want to say anything that might lead her to my way of thinking. “Looking back, who do you think might have done it? Who do you think would want your niece dead?” I didn’t bring up Old Man Goodson. I wanted her to give me the most honest answer she could.
Clara Covington stood and walked to the front window. She straightened the old curtain as she spoke. “You might could check into that boyfriend of hers, Eric—” she shook her head. “Rooting, that’s it. He was going out on her, and the more I think about it, the more I think he killed her.”
“Yes, I recall from reading the case file that he’d admitted to the cheating. He was with the girl that night, correct?”
“So he says, but I don’t trust him. A man that’s willing to cheat on his woman is willing to lie, too.” She stroked the curtain with her hand and then turned around. “You know, I think I got her diary upstairs in a box. Got most of my sister’s things up in one of the bedrooms now, and if I remember, that was in some of Jenny’s things. You want it? Might help you with your investigation.”
I smiled, both because she’d called my questions an investigation and because she had something of value that might help. “Yes, that would be great.” Assuming she’d given up on the investigation, which had gone cold weeks after her niece’s murder, I didn’t ask why she hadn’t offered it to the sheriff since she’d acquired it.
She wandered toward the parlor’s entrance. “It’ll take me a minute to dig it out. Belle, you got yourself a barrel full of anxiety sitting there bouncing in the seat like that. Go on, have a look around.” She pointed at the side of her head and then at Belle. “I got me a good memory. I know you love antiques and old houses. You told me that last time you were here.”
Belle jumped from her seat. “Thank you, Clara. I’d love to.”
“See anything you want, I’ll put your name on it. I’m not ready to go just yet, but when it’s my time, I’m going to need someone to take this stuff off my hands. Can’t stand to see it thrown out or the like.”
I snuck a quick peek at Belle, and I would have sworn drool dribbled out of the corner of her mouth. The woman had a strange relationship with all things antique. It was one of the things I loved about her.
While the two women went off to do their duties, I stayed in the parlor and reviewed our discussion. In the original case file, the Covingtons believed Buford Jennings killed their daughter, but Deputy Pittman cleared the man. He must have not known Jennings’ lost his farm shortly after the investigation went cold because the file was never updated to reflect it. In my unprofessional opinion that bordered on motive, but I decided to run it by Dylan for his thoughts.
Clara also mentioned Eric Rooting, but Pittman had cleared him, too. In the deputy’s eyes the girl he was believed to have cheated with, Amy Flanders, as well as his group of friends with him that night, were enough of an alibi. I, however, had to agree with Clara. If someone would cheat, they could just as easily lie. I needed to talk to him. I made a note to see where he’d ended up, and I also texted Dylan to ask if he could find his address for me.
Belle stepped back into the parlor, her eyes bigger than the bottoms of Coke bottles. “She’s got some beautiful things here. If I had the money, I’d just offer to buy the house and everything in it.” She plopped onto the loveseat and sighed. “I’m in
heaven.”
“You have a problem.”
“Yes, but it could be worse. I could be an amateur sleuth like you.”
I pinched her leg just above the knee cap where the skin was loosest, though on her it really wasn’t. “Belle Pyott, that was hurtful.”
“Ouch,” she said, jerking away. “That was literally hurtful.”
We both laughed.
“Seriously, she’s got a double oven from the 40s, and it still works.”
I imagined the pink stove my meemaw had when I was a kid. I wanted one just like it for my Bratz dolls. “It is pink?”
She shook her head. “Nope, it’s white, and it’s amazing.”
“Well, maybe someday it’ll be yours.”
Just as Clara returned, my phone dinged with a return text from Dylan. “Unfortunately, it’s not only unethical but criminal for me to use the state or federal network without probable cause, but you can probably find him on whitepages.com.”
“Thanks,” I responded. A little nudge in the back of my brain thought he might have told me that in an early situation, but I wasn’t sure.
Clara handed me Jennifer Rawlings’ diary. It was the old-fashioned paisley pink and green diary with a tiny little lock similar to the ones all girls had at some point in their youth. “Don’t have the key, but I don’t think it’ll be too hard to get it open.”
“Thank you, this will be helpful.” I stuffed the small journal into the front pocket of my bag.
She smiled. “I hate that her killer was never found. Girl deserves justice so she can rest in peace. You find that for her, and I’ll be forever in your debt. Her momma can rest peacefully then, too.”
“I’ll do my best.”
She nodded. “You need anything else, you let me know.” She focused her attention on Belle. “You find anything you want me to put aside for you?”
“Clara, you have so many beautiful things here, things that are worth a lot of money. I wouldn’t want to take any of them. I don’t think I could pay you what they’re worth.”
The old woman’s face softened. “You come from good stock. Your momma should be proud.”
Belle laughed. “I try to tell her that, too.”
“I’ll tell you what, if I think you might like something, I’ll note that in my will, okay? Be nice to have someone to give something to.”
“That would be lovely, Clara, thank you.”
I handed the older woman my card. “If you think of anything else, please let me know.”
It wasn’t lost on me that we’d left Clara Covington’s house without even a mention of Old Man Goodson or the possible affair between Clyde Covington and my dear friend’s wife, and I suspected I’d be back to have those discussions another time.
Chapter 3
The rest of the day sailed by with conference calls and contract negotiations, and by the time I retrieved Bo from doggie day care, we were both too tired to do much of anything except lay on the couch and watch TV. I did garner up enough energy to add a few photos to my new Pinterest wedding board, so I gave myself kudos for that. I’ve had a dream wedding board since I first signed onto Pinterest a few years ago, but now that the dream was a reality, I created a second board for items I would seriously consider using instead of simply things I liked.
Only every time I signed on and went to either board, the butterflies I expected to feel for wedding planning felt like wasps instead. My heart just wasn’t in it, and I didn’t quite know why. I wanted to marry Dylan, that wasn’t the issue. The issue was the planning and the wedding itself. Something I couldn’t place, something inside of me didn’t feel right about it.
The wedding was less than a year away, and I’d learned that when something big is happening, time speeds up, so I pushed through the deepening sense of dread and tried to take planning it seriously. There were so many online wedding planning programs, but my old soul preferred a paper planner. I loved flipping through the pages, seeing things all at once, touching and feeling my ideas, at least about other events, like the Christmas parade. I’d printed out photos of weddings from the internet and double-side taped them into my planner, then made sure to show Dylan, and of course, Belle, hoping their excitement would magically make things all better, only it hadn’t. Just the other day I’d decided on the flowers, and I felt a sense of relief in that. Flowers were important. They made a statement, and I wanted mine to represent both Dylan’s and my personalities as well as coincide with the theme of our day. I just wished that sense of relief held anticipation and excitement, too.
I’d chosen daisies. The white and golden flower represented true love and new beginnings, but also purity and innocence, and while I wouldn’t call Dylan nor I pure and innocent, our love started that way when we were just kids. I’d read online that new mothers are often given daisies to pay homage to a new beginning, and I considered our marriage a new beginning for both of us. I wasn’t quite ready for the mother part, but I picked the flowers anyway.
We’d decided on a simple but classy Southern themed wedding in a barn. That part was easy, probably because it was the thing of late, and everyone was doing it, but we weren’t going with a traditional barn wedding in a barn used for them. Instead we’d decided to use a real barn and create the environment ourselves. I knew Dylan really didn’t understand what he’d gotten himself into, but he’d eventually figure it out—when we had to step up and do the work.
My good friend Caroline Abernathy had the perfect barn. She and her husband William owned the county’s corn maze, and when I’d offered to pay to use her barn, she told me I’d just insulted her. I could use it, but she wouldn’t take a penny from me. She did, however, strongly suggest we do a massive cleanup and that it would take a miracle to make it wedding presentable. That concerned me, but Dylan and Belle agreed everyone we knew and loved would pitch in and make it perfect. I stressed about that, too. I stressed about everything wedding, and at some point, I’d have to figure out why.
I wanted to go to bed, but I didn’t have the heart to move. Bo snored next to me, his wet jowl flopping against my leg. I giggled softly as his legs twitched and wondered what he did in his little dream world. I went ahead and searched the internet for Eric Rooting while my dog played in his sleep.
It wasn’t hard to find him. He owned Rooting Financial Advisors, a small investment company in Alpharetta. A quick search got me his address in Milton Georgia, which was just southwest of me in Fulton County. I’d recently signed up and purchased a membership with Ancestry.com, so I went into my account and ran a search for his name. Public records came up as hints and one a 1998 marriage to a woman named Allison Leeds. The name sounded familiar, so I checked my notes lying on the table next to me. Allison Leeds was a friend of Jennifer’s. Ancestry didn’t show a divorce, so I assumed they were still married.
I made sure not to add him to my family tree and prided myself on the fact that I’d thought to use the service as part of my cold case investigation. I was getting pretty darn good at amateur sleuthing.
I wasn’t familiar with his address, so I popped it into my Google Maps and got directions, then took a screenshot of them. He was only thirty-five minutes from Bramblett. I could easily make a trip to his place the following day, and that’s what I decided to do.
Bo twitched himself awake and drug his wet jowl across my leg as he stretched off the couch. I let him out and then we both hit the hay.
* * *
Eric Rooting wasn’t suffering financially, at least by the looks of his house. He lived in a golf country club subdivision called The Manor, with homes selling on the low end in the two millions and the high end in the four millions. I would have been thrilled to list a home in there, just the exposure of that alone was worth the drive, but I’d never even considered it, and it was well out of my marketing area anyway. The community oozed money, so much so it had been featured in the Demi Moore movie, The Joneses ten years ago.
If I’d been hired to be his listing agent, I’d
call the home an estate, not just a home. The community itself was gated, but Rooting had a privacy fence and gate for his property too, which thankfully, was open. He wasn’t the only one with one, either. I wondered if the fences were more for show than anything.
The only reason I got into the community in the first place was because I showed the security guard at the gate my realtor license. I fibbed a bit and told him I had a client interested in the community, and I wanted to do a drive through to pick the properties to show. I felt a bit guilty being dishonest, but if it could help me find Jennifer Rawlings’ killer, I hoped God would forgive me.
Saturday mornings are busy times in golf communities, and the weather, though still colder than a typical Georgia spring, favored a game of golf that morning, and the course was filled with golfers tooling around in their expensive little carts.
I parked in the center of the half circle drive, keeping my car close to the front entrance, which centered right in the middle of the cement driveway. I’d considered parking in front of one of the four garages balancing out the sides of the estate, but I didn’t want to be in anyone’s way.
The doorbell was one of the electronic video ones, and I knew that would be a strike against me, but I gave it a shot anyway.
A tall, slender woman in a mid-length peach colored skirt and a white long sleeve button down shirt opened the door without asking who I was. “My husband obviously left the gate open again, didn’t he?”
I smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
She leaned to the side inside the door and returned with her wallet in hand. “What are you raising money for? I’ll give you cash if you have a receipt you can provide.”
“Oh, I’m not raising money for anything. I was hoping I could talk to Mr. Rooting.”
She angled her head to the side and raised her right eyebrow. “Whatever for?”
The sting of her uppity attitude hit me where my patience usually rested. I dug out the patience and used it on her. “My name is Lily Sprayberry. I’m a realtor in Bramblett County, and I’m—”
Open House Heist Page 3
