Deadly Catch (28 page)

“Don’t you think you should let Bo Pickron in on what we’ve learned?” Kate said, snuggling closer. She’d come over after work Friday for grilled trout and vegetables. One thing led to another, and now we were lying in bed, staring out the window at the myriad of stars visible through the pine tops.

I let out a deep breath, being careful not to trip up and let slip anything about the shooting incident. There had been no trace of Blondie around the area the past few days, and I was beginning to breathe a little easier. “Maybe, but we can’t prove anything except that his sister and Lamar were probably having an affair. I doubt if he’ll be overjoyed to hear that. And the rest is just our theory.”

“But it all makes sense,” Kate said. “Lamar injures his eye around the same time Maddie and Brett disappear; the photos Tom Mayo took showing they were lovers; and yours, showing Marilyn attacking Lamar and throwing an envelope full of money at him while screaming Maddie’s name.”

“That money could’ve been for anything. Maybe Lamar did some work for her and she wasn’t satisfied with the results.”

Kate propped up on an elbow and stared at me. “Dang, Mac, you can be so stubborn sometimes. What
do
we need, then?”

“Let’s see . . . a motive wouldn’t hurt, and the weapon whoever shot Brett with would add a nice touch.”

Kate gave my shoulder a shove, then snuggled close again and draped an arm across my chest. “I’m going to sleep. Some of us have to get to work early.”

I lay there for a long time, feeling Kate’s warm body nestled against mine, listening to the sound of her soft breathing. I recalled her words, “Some of us have to get to work early.”

I was one of them.

The next morning I was up in time to cook Kate breakfast. As soon as she left for work I began rehearsing just how I would approach Marilyn Harper and what I’d say when I paid her an unexpected visit. I was heading out the door when my phone rang. I sat on the picnic bench and punched the talk button. “McClellan.”

“It’s J.D. Owens, sir. You got a minute?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“I was in Chief Merritt’s office this morning right after my shift ended when he got a call,” J.D. said, talking faster than usual. “Soon as he answered he told me to get lost, so I went to the lobby. Beth asked me to watch the desk for her while she went to the bathroom, so I told her I would.”

“Slow down, J.D., I can hardly make out what you’re saying.”

“Yes, sir, sorry. Anyway, Beth usually takes her time when she uses the bathroom. I don’t know what all she does in there, but—”

“Get to the point, J.D. This isn’t about Beth using the bathroom, is it?”

“No, sir. So, I’m sitting in her chair, and I get to thinking about what you said, about keeping my ears open and all. Anyway, I picked up the phone quiet as I could and listened in on what the chief was saying.”

There was a pause. “What did you hear?”

“He was talking to Clayton Barfield. Mr. Barfield said something about a boat coming in, and going floundering tonight, after midnight I think he said, but I’m not real sure. What do you reckon he meant by that?”

“Floundering? I don’t know. Anything else?”

“The chief said something about him taking care of it. Don’t know what he meant by that, either. I was starting to get scared by then, thinking I might get caught, so I hung up. Good thing, too. Beth come out of the bathroom about two seconds later.”

“That’s good work, J.D.,” I said, “but don’t go taking chances like that again. We don’t need you getting your butt in a sling with Merritt.”

Had J.D. Owens stumbled onto something important? Why the hell would Clayton Barfield advise Ben Merritt he planned to go floundering after midnight? What business was it of Merritt’s, and what was it that Merritt would take care of? My gut told me the chief wasn’t the least bit interested in buying any fresh flounder from Barfield Fisheries.

Then the proverbial lightbulb switched on in my head. Damn, sometimes two plus two really does equal four. I’d deal with the floundering issue later, but right then I had another fish to grill. I drove to the Harper property and turned onto the winding drive toward Tara. I parked just past the front porch and grabbed the manila envelope off the seat. To my surprise Marilyn Harper opened the door after the first ring.

“Morning, Mare.” It was only nine-thirty, but she was already slurping down the martinis. She was wearing a white bathrobe with matching slippers and looked like she’d aged ten years since my previous visit.

Her eyes narrowed and she leaned her face closer to me like she was trying to focus. “Do I know you?”

Her breath was sour, and I tried not to flinch. “Yes, ma’am, I’m Mac McClellan. We spoke here a while back.”

She weaved and stumbled back a step before catching her balance. “Oh, sure, Mac. You make the best martinis. Come on in.

“Excuse the mess,” she said, waving her free hand above her head as I followed her into the great room. “The cleaning wench comes twice a week, but things have been a mess lately.”

Wench? Adele must’ve been Friendly George’s idea after all. “Looks fine to me,” I said. And it did. From the looks of things, Adele was a worthwhile hire. Except for several martini glasses scattered about and an overturned pitcher lying next to a red purse on the bar, the house was spic and span.

Marilyn swayed to the bar and topped off her glass from a half-empty pitcher. “So Mac, what brings you here this fine morning?”

No sense beating around the bush when it seemed the booze had loosened Marilyn’s tongue and fogged her memory of our previous meeting. “I’m trying to find out who’s responsible for Maddie’s death, and I believe you can help me.”

Marilyn’s knees almost buckled as she took a step toward me. She turned and leaned against the bar. “Brett Barfield killed my Maddie. Drowned her when he crashed that damned boat of his.” Then she laughed. “That bastard got his, though. Son of a bitch is dead! Left my Maddie to drown, but now the sorry bastard is finally dead, too!”

She was spitting venom, and her face looked like evil incarnate. I was treading a fine line here, like tiptoeing through a mine field. “Lamar Randall killed Brett Barfield, didn’t he, Mare?”

She started like she’d been slapped, and what little color was left in her already pasty face drained away. “No, he . . . it was some drug dealer the bastard was trying to double-cross.”

“You were paying Lamar to get him to break up Maddie and Brett, weren’t you?”

She flung the glass at me. It sailed over my head and crashed against a wall in the great room. “How dare you come into my house and accuse—”

“I’ve got photos of you and Lamar together,” I said, holding up the envelope. “Photos your brother would be very interested in seeing.”

She weaved again and grabbed the bar to keep from falling. She steadied herself, then took a clean glass from a row on the bar and poured another drink. Somehow she managed to scoot up on one of the plush, high-backed barstools. “You’re bluffing,” she spat. “You don’t know a goddamn thing.”

I pulled out the shot Tom Mayo had taken of the love birds kissing in the Lincoln. “So, call my hand.”

She leaned forward and squinted at the photo. I stepped closer and held it a foot away from her face so she wouldn’t topple off the stool. She grimaced, her lips nearly disappearing. “You don’t know anything. He needed a ride one day and he kissed me, that’s all.”

I slipped the other shot of the two in the car from the envelope and showed it to her. I followed that up with Mayo’s photos of her waiting for Lamar at the front door. “Nice of you to let your guests park in your garage while they visit. Or maybe you didn’t want to risk anyone seeing Lamar’s vehicle at your house while the mayor was away.”

I showed her the in-focus shots I’d taken of her attacking Lamar and throwing the money at him. “And I suppose this was payment for an odd job? I heard you screaming Maddie’s name while I took these.”

Marilyn gulped down the rest of her martini, swiveled in the stool, and grabbed the pitcher to pour another. She smiled, or was it a sneer? “Those photographs don’t prove a goddamn thing, and you still don’t know anything.”

“I know your husband was Brett Barfield’s biological father,” I said, watching for Marilyn’s reaction to my ace-in-the-hole bluff, “and I also know your husband was paying bribe money to Chief Merritt to keep Brett out of trouble.” I waited, but all Marilyn did was to keep the smiling sneer plastered on her face and begin pumping a foot up and down on the stool’s foot rest.

“You hated Brett Barfield because you knew he was your husband’s illegitimate son. And you hated him because he and Maddie fell in love and planned to get married. Brett and Maddie were first cousins, and you couldn’t stand the thought of Brett touching her. You hated that Maddie was carrying Brett’s child. You hated the thought of them being together so much that you paid Lamar Randall to do whatever it took to make sure they didn’t stay together.

“Only something went wrong, didn’t it?” I said, noticing Marilyn’s chin begin to quiver and her foot flail faster. “Terribly wrong. Lamar met Brett out in the middle of nowhere to make him a final offer to stay away from Maddie. But Brett wasn’t buying, so Lamar pulled out a gun to scare him, and the two started fighting.

“Lamar didn’t know it, but Maddie was there with Brett. And when she saw Lamar pull the pistol, and he and Brett struggling over it, Maddie came running and nearly scratched Lamar’s eye out to try to stop him from hurting the man she loved.

“Lamar shoved her away, and that’s when poor Maddie fell into the sinkhole. Lamar and Brett kept fighting until the gun went off. Brett slumped to the ground, shot through the gut. Lamar panicked. He’d only meant to scare Brett from seeing Maddie anymore, and now two people were dead. Then he weighted Brett’s body with a rock and dumped it into the same—”

“Shut up! Shut up, you son of a bitch!”

I’d been too caught up imagining the scene to notice Marilyn reach into her purse and pull out a snub-nosed revolver. She held the pistol in one hand, the martini glass in the other. Both were shaking. Gin sloshed out of the glass; I hoped a bullet wouldn’t spill from the barrel pointed at my chest.

“You forced your way in here and tried to rape me, Mac,” Marilyn slurred. “Too bad I had to shoot you. Who’s the sheriff going to believe, his own sister or some newcomer who broke in and attacked her?”

I stared into Marilyn’s eyes. I’d seen that look before. She meant business, and there was no time to lose. I flung the envelope at her and darted to the left just as she jerked the trigger and the revolver barked. The recoil sent her gun hand flying into her face, knocking her back against the bar and onto the floor. In a flash I pinned her arm with one hand and grabbed the revolver with the other. I stood and looked down. Her martini hand was clasped over her nose, blood pouring through her fingers. She was shuddering and crying out Maddie’s name between labored breaths. The woman had just tried to kill me, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.

I slipped the revolver inside my free back pocket, grabbed a couple of folded cloth napkins from a stack on the bar, and dropped them beside her face. She took the napkins and wadded them against her nose, still sobbing as I picked up the envelope and left.