Death Crashes the Party (13 page)

Chapter 17

After I got back from dropping off the tapes at Dave's house, I checked the answering machine and double-checked my cell phone for texts or missed calls but found none. I figured no news from the hospital was good news.

Despite my concerns about insomnia, sleep came easily. Feeling as wrung out as a dishrag, I collapsed into bed and didn't awaken until the alarm clock went off at 6:15 a.m.

I arrived in the ICU waiting room a few minutes before seven to find my husband and my mother-in-law looking haggard and swilling coffee out of Styrofoam cups. While they both looked tired, Miss Betty's eyes were red, as if she'd been crying. When she excused herself to go to the ladies' room, I asked Larry Joe about her.

“Did your mama not get any sleep?”

“Off and on. Actually, she did pretty well until about five o'clock. Mr. Coburn, one of the ICU patients, passed away. And that's when they told his family. Mama got all emotional then.”

“I'm so sorry, honey. Maybe we can get your mom to go home and rest awhile after the eight o'clock visit.”

But rest would have to wait.

Dr. Chase came to talk to us just after we had gone in to see Daddy Wayne.

“Betty,” he said, “I don't like the looks of this morning's readings. I'm scheduling Wayne for angioplasty at ten this morning, and we'll put in two stents while we're in there.”

Despite Dr. Chase's assurances that angioplasty was a very safe and widely used procedure, when we went in to see my father-in-law before they took him up for surgery Larry Joe and I squeezed his dad's hands, as if we were seeing him for the last time. Then we slipped out to let my mother-in-law have a few minutes alone with him before his surgery.

My husband and I wrapped our arms around each other and stood silently in the hall until his mom came out of the room.

“I guess we should make some phone calls,” she said. “I'll call the preacher and your uncle Ed.”

We spread out, leaving a few feet between each other, and Miss Betty made her calls, Larry Joe phoned the trucking company, and I called my mother. Mama was miffed that I hadn't called her last night, but she softened when I told her Daddy Wayne was scheduled for stents at ten o'clock.

“I'm on my way,” she said.

My mom muscled her way in to see Daddy Wayne, even though it wasn't visiting hours. Then she came out and sat with us in the waiting room. The three of us McKays were too tired to talk, so Mama carried the conversation—something she has a gift for. In a bit, Mama jumped up and said she was going to phone to see what was keeping the preacher.

Larry Joe took his mom's hand and asked if she wanted us to call any of her friends.

“No. I've got my family here,” she said, holding tight to Larry Joe's hand and reaching over to pat me on the knee. “Brother Caleb will put Wayne's name on the prayer list for the Wednesday night service. By the end of the week, church folks will be swarming.”

“Maybe Daddy Wayne will be home by then,” I said, trying hard to sound hopeful.

A hush fell over the room, and all eyes turned as Mama walked through the door, accompanied by Brother Caleb Duncan in a three-piece suit, with slicked-back hair, and with a Bible tucked under one arm.

The three of us stood in unison. Brother Duncan clasped Miss Betty's hands between his and assured her of the church's prayers and support. He invited us to go with him to pray over Daddy Wayne. Larry Joe and his mom followed along behind Brother Duncan, and Mama and I decided to remain in the waiting room.

“Did y'all go out to the graveside service yesterday?” Mama asked.

“No. We talked Daddy Wayne into going home to lie down, which should have been a sign. I wish we had made him go on to the hospital right then. Maybe he could have avoided having this heart attack.”

“Now, you know dang well you couldn't have dragged that bullheaded man to the hospital. I'm surprised you were able to talk him into going home to lie down. Hopefully, after this wake-up call he'll take better care of himself. Betty's just going to have to put her foot down if he won't behave. And speaking of misbehaving, I had to put my foot down with a certain make-believe colonel yesterday,” Mama said, barely taking a breath.

She went on. “Junior Price grabbed my bottom during the funeral lunch, as I was pouring iced tea in his glass. Sitting there, all decked out in his Confederate uniform . . . He may be an officer, but he's certainly no gentleman. I gave him my best squinty-eyed look. If Junior had put his hand on my fanny a second time, he was getting cooled off with a pitcher of iced tea to his crotch.”

In the South, a man can still be called “Junior” decades after the “Senior” is dead and buried. I guessed Junior Price to be in his midseventies. However, I know from experience that Mama's mean, squinty-eyed look was pretty scary at any age.

“What were you doing at the funeral lunch? I thought the Methodist women were taking care of it.”

“Liv, you know me. I'm not the kind who waits around to be asked to do something. Sylvia and I just naturally pitched in. Besides, that little Methodist group obviously needed some help. Pitiful lack of planning there. Three different people brought potato salad, for heaven's sake.”

I wouldn't say Mama didn't have good intentions, but in this case I tended to believe her motivation might have been more about gossip than gospel. I didn't scold her, though. One, because it wouldn't do any good, and two, because I wanted to hear whatever gossip she might have picked up.

“I'm glad Wayne went home to rest. Ralph Harvey was there, so McKay Trucking was represented, and Ralph seemed to know some of those Civil War actors. Wasn't that the strangest thing you've ever seen, all the pallbearers in Confederate uniforms? But at least they were dressed nice. I've been to some funerals where the pallbearers didn't even wear a tie. . . .”

Mama went on for a good while but didn't tell me anything useful to the investigation. If Tonya Farrell had any family still living, they didn't come to the funeral, which was sad.

“I happened to see Junior Price handing a thick envelope to Tonya Farrell,” Mama said. “I assumed the Civil War actors passed the hat and gave the money they collected to Tonya to help with funeral expenses, which I thought was real nice. Only time I saw that poor woman smile all day, bless her heart. It was almost sweet enough to make me forgive Junior Price for pinching my bottom—but not quite.”

It seemed like hours before they took my father-in-law to the operating room, and the hour and twenty minutes for the procedure seemed even longer. Afterward, Dr. Chase came into the waiting room, still dressed in scrubs. He said the procedure went well, but Daddy Wayne's blood pressure was still too high. They'd have to monitor him closely, and he likely would be in the intensive care unit for a couple more days.

We all breathed a sigh of relief that Daddy Wayne had made it through surgery. Mama left after hearing the doctor's report, and Larry Joe finally talked his mom into going home and they left to get a bite to eat and to get some rest. I volunteered to stay in the ICU waiting room until they returned. I knew my mother-in-law wouldn't leave unless somebody was keeping vigil.

Di arrived to keep me company just after 7:00 p.m. with take-out plates from the diner.

“How was yoga class this evening?” I asked as I speared a green bean with a plastic fork.

“It was fine. And you'll be pleased to know, against my better judgment, I did your bidding and invited Deputy Ted to join me for some ice cream after class. I guess your father-in-law being in the hospital made me feel charitable. Plus, I'm still not speaking to Dave.”

“Did you find out anything?”

“Yeah. I found out Ted's a sloppy eater. But he also told me they scored with their surveillance operation the other night.”

I listened with rapt attention as Di laid out the details. The manager at the mini-storage place had called the sheriff after spotting some guy walking around outside of Darrell Farrell's storage unit—the one with all the expensive Civil War gear in it—and taking a real close look at the lock. So Ted had set up surveillance that night to see if the guy would come back and try to break in, which he did. The sheriff had instructed Ted not to arrest the guy until he came out of the storage unit. Dave wanted to know what he was after. Thought it might be important to the case.

“Ted said it was pretty obvious the thief wasn't a professional, since it took him, like, fifteen minutes to get the lock open,” Di said before downing the last of her bottled water and reaching across me to take a drink of my Diet Coke. “I guess that ice cream made me thirsty.”

“So what was the man after in the storage room? Were there drugs hidden inside some of the stuff?”

“No. He just nabbed one sword. Apparently, it's a pretty rare piece, according to Professor Shapiro. But he also had a camera with him and took digital photos of nearly everything in the storage unit.”

“Hold that thought,” I said.

I got up and walked over to the vending machine area adjoining the waiting room to buy Di a Diet Coke of her own. I'd say my mind was racing, but I was operating on too much of a sleep deficit for that. It was more like my mind was stuck in second gear, trying to forge up a steep hill. I wondered why anyone would go to the trouble to break into a room full of expensive collectibles, only to steal just one item and take some photographs.

Di resumed telling me the story, pausing occasionally when prying ears moved past us.

It turned out the not so professional thief was a legitimate dealer of Civil War goods and was named something Adams. He had owned a store near Nashville for the past ten years. He said he had bought some stuff from Darrell Farrell a while back that turned out to be stolen. He found out when a dealer friend of his was in town, visiting, and spotted something in the store that had been burgled from one of his longtime customers, some real big-time collector. And the collector had insurance photos to back up his claims.

Adams said he returned the stolen goods. The only problem was, he'd already sold a couple of items he had bought from Darrell. He paid the ripped-off collector market value for the sold items, and the victim agreed not to report it to the police or tell fellow collectors. Adams said he was ticked off to be out of the money, but he was really more worried about his reputation as a dealer. It could ruin his business if word got around to serious collectors that he had bought or sold stolen goods.

Adams said he took pictures of all the stuff Darrell had in storage to find out if any more of it was stolen. He figured if he had proof, he could get Darrell arrested—and probably collect a reward from the owners for the return of their collectibles.

“But why did he take the sword?”

“Supposedly, it's an expensive, really rare sword. Adams said he was pretty sure it hadn't been stolen, because he figured he would have heard about it if a piece like that had gone missing. He said he wouldn't risk trying to sell it, but he wanted it for his personal collection. Considered it payment for the stolen stuff Darrell had pawned off on him,” Di said. “That's his story, anyway.”

“Do the police think this guy, Adams, is the one who assaulted Dr. Shapiro? Could he be mixed up in the murders?”

“He swears that he had nothing to do with the Farrells' deaths, that he heard about the murders only after he had tracked down Darrell's address in Dixie. But it seems to me he had a pretty good motive, especially if he had confronted the Farrells about the stolen merchandise. He apparently has a solid alibi for the time of the robbery and assault at the professor's house, but he doesn't seem to have an alibi for the time of the murders.”

“What is Dave going to do with him? Has he been charged?”

“He was charged with breaking and entering, but he made bail this morning. Dave told him he could go home to Nashville, but he has to check in with the cops there. And Dave let Adams keep the pictures he took after downloading copies to the computer at the police station. Dave told the guy he could discreetly show the photos to some collectors that have been robbed. If he can document that any of the stuff in Darrell's storage unit is stolen and who it was stolen from, it could give Dave a new lead in the murder investigation.”

“And you were able to prod all this information out of Ted over an ice cream sundae? You're
good
,” I said.

Di replied to my comment with stony silence.

Chapter 18

Larry Joe and his mom made it back to the hospital in time for the last visiting period of the day, and Di said her good-byes. Daddy Wayne seemed to be resting comfortably when we looked in on him. Larry Joe and I went back to the waiting room, while Miss Betty stayed beside the bed, holding tightly to her husband's hand.

Later we tried to talk my mother-in-law into going home for the night. But she refused to leave while Daddy Wayne was still in the ICU, and Larry Joe couldn't let her stay all night in the waiting room by herself. Although I offered to stay the night with his mom so Larry Joe could sleep in a real bed for a change, he wouldn't hear of it. I fervently hoped the doctor would be able to move Daddy Wayne into a regular room soon.

I pulled out of the hospital driveway, thinking of all the things I needed to do in the morning. I needed to go to the grocery store. I needed to call Mama. I really wanted to find out more about the stolen Confederate artifacts and how they might tie in with the drug smuggling. And I desperately needed to catch up on some work.

Despite all the questions running through my mind about what I had learned from Di, I was asleep by the time my head hit the pillow, and I didn't stir until well after 7:00 a.m. I started the coffeemaker and took a long, steamy shower. Savoring a hot cup of coffee, I sat at the kitchen table, looking out my window at blue skies streaked with white and gold. I felt almost like a normal human being again after days of losing sleep and being worried sick about the murders, my father-in-law's health, and the family business, not to mention getting caught breaking into Ray's trailer and being grilled by the sheriff for hours. Oh, and I almost forgot about the whole “finding two dead bodies in a garage” incident.

My cell phone, which was still in vibrate mode, the mode I had switched it to at the hospital, suddenly began to buzz and dance across the tabletop. I was surprised to see it was a text message from Di, since she rarely calls while she's working.

When I opened the message, a photo popped up of Ralph Harvey and Bobo standing on a porch, talking. Di had texted,
If this is Bobo, call Dave. House in 400 block of W. Spruce couple minutes ago
.

I had never seen Bobo in person, but it was definitely the same guy I'd seen on the tape with Ray Franklin, so that was confirmation enough for me. Why would Ralph be talking to Bobo? I followed Di's advice and called the sheriff. I filled him in and then forwarded the photo to his phone. Dave said he'd have an unmarked car check it out. I then texted Di to let her know what was happening.

I felt queasy at the thought that Ralph, a longtime trusted employee at McKay's, could possibly be involved in smuggling drugs or maybe even murder.

So much for things feeling normal again.

I tried to busy myself by unloading the dishwasher and sorting laundry. More than an hour passed without my hearing from Dave. I called his cell, but my call went straight to voice mail. As anxious as I was to find out something, I knew only too well that Dave was much more into receiving information than doling it out.

I dressed and drove to the office. I figured that staying busy was the best thing I could do. I touched base with a couple of clients. The phone rang, and it was a potential client. If I'd had the energy, I would have done a little happy dance. I made an appointment to meet with the parents of the bride about a formal engagement party.

As a rule, I don't do weddings anymore, although on occasion I still get roped into planning a wedding for family or close friends. Weddings just bring too much drama. I mean, it's usually not a huge deal if a guest shows up at a party and he's already been hitting the bottle. But if it's a wedding and the drunk in question is the father of the bride, it can spell disaster. Been there, done that. As a party planner, I just find bridal showers and engagement parties—and pretty much any event other than a wedding—to be much less stressful.

I was humming a lively tune after I got off the phone with the new clients. We had scheduled an appointment for them to come to my office. They had called because a good friend of theirs had given me a glowing recommendation—which was always nice to hear. And it sounded like they had a large and lavish celebration in mind, which could add up to a very nice payday for me.

Next, I gathered up my notes and headed downstairs to Sweet Deal Realty's office for an 11:30 a.m. conference. I had a meeting with Winette, Dixie Chamber of Commerce director Bryn Davenport, a local pastor, the mayor's secretary and a couple of other people to go over plans for a Halloween party fund-raiser to benefit Residential Rehab. This wasn't a moneymaker for me or for anyone else involved. It was strictly volunteer, but for a very worthwhile cause. The meeting broke up around 12:20 p.m. Just as the others were leaving, I stepped away to answer my cell phone. More good news. Larry Joe had called to say they were moving his dad to a regular room.

“That's the biggest grin I've seen on your face in a while,” Winette said as she walked from the conference table back to her desk.

“It's the best news I've had in a while. They're finally moving my father-in-law to a regular hospital room.”

“That
is
good news.”

“You're pretty dressed up, Winette. Do you have some house showings today?”

“Naw. I've got a funeral to go to.”

“I'm sorry. Was it someone close?”

“It's a lady at my church. She was ninety-eight, I think. Anyway, she hadn't been doing too well for a long while. She's got lots of children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I'm going to help out with serving lunch to the family after the funeral.”

I couldn't help wondering how much potato salad they'd have.

As Winette left for the funeral, I wandered over to the diner. All the booths and most of the stools at the counter were already filled with the lunch crowd. I nabbed a small table for two against the wall, one wedged between the hall to the restrooms and the swinging doors to the kitchen. Since I'd had nothing but coffee for breakfast, I ordered a vegetable plate with turnip greens, fried squash, and glazed carrots.

I had just placed my order and was handing my menu back to the waitress when I caught sight of Deputy Ted Horton over her shoulder, walking in my direction.

“Diner's about full up. Mind if I join you?”

“Pull up a chair. I'd appreciate the company.”

Our waitress had disappeared momentarily and reappeared with a glass of iced tea for Ted. “You want the special, hon?” she inquired, touching Ted on the shoulder. He nodded, and she padded away in orthopedic shoes.

“What is today's special?”

“I don't remember what it is on Thursdays,” Ted said. “I just always order the special.”

I was dying to ask Ted if they'd learned anything new about the guy who had broken into Darrell's storage unit or if any of the Civil War collectibles at the mini storage really were stolen. But that would be admitting that Di had told me everything he'd said to her over an ice cream sundae. I decided that would be bad form.

Ted interrupted my thoughts to ask how my father-in-law was doing.

“He's improving. In fact, they're moving him out of the ICU and into a private room today.”

“That's really good news. I'm sure the investigation into the murders and the drugs has been pretty stressful for him,” Ted said, sounding apologetic.

This gave me the perfect opportunity to ask about Ralph Harvey and Bobo. After all, I was the one who had sent Dave the photo.

“I'm afraid it's going to be really upsetting to Daddy Wayne if it turns out Ralph Harvey is somehow involved in all this. Do you know what his connection is to Bobo?”

“No, but thanks for the information about him and Ralph.”

I was afraid my inquiry had come to a dead end, but after Ted took a big gulp of iced tea, he continued.

“The Feds are tailing Bobo. They had lost track of him but are back on his trail, thanks to your call. They hope he'll lead them to the top guys in the drug-smuggling operation.”

One waitress set our orders on the table, while another breezed over and refilled our iced teas. Turned out the special of the day was chicken and dumplings.

“What about Ralph?” I asked in a hushed tone after the waitresses had walked away.

“We're keeping an eye on him. The Feds aren't really interested in him right now. If he's involved in the drug ring, it's only as a two-bit player. They may question him later, once something turns up with Bobo. But now that it looks like he might be linked to Bobo and the drug smuggling, the sheriff thinks there's a chance he could also know something about the murders.”

“Whose front porch were Ralph and Bobo standing on? I know Ralph doesn't live on that street.”

“It's Ralph's mama's house,” Ted said. “She's in bad health. Doesn't get out much.”

“Ralph's worked for the company for years,” I said. “It's just so hard to believe he could be mixed up in any of this.”

“Unfortunately, we don't have enough information to bring him in at this point. I'd appreciate it if you kept this information under wraps for the time being. We definitely don't want to tip off Ralph that he's a suspect.”

I made the gesture of turning a key in my lips and throwing away the imaginary key as a vow of silence.

“Just out of curiosity, Ted, is Bobo a first name, last name, nickname?”

“Last name. His first name is Milton,” Ted said with a smirk.