The Fixer Upper (20 page)

C
amerin Allgood and Jackson Harrell walked into Carter’s office unannounced. Carter glanced over and gave me a surreptitious wink.

Agent Allgood dropped into one of the wingback chairs facing the desk, leaving Harrell to drag a chair over from the conference table.

The FBI agent was dressed in form-fitting blue spandex running tights and a baggy gray UVA sweatshirt. Her hair was tied up in a ponytail. Harrell wore running clothes too, although his consisted of loose gray sweatpants and a long-sleeved Falcons jersey.

Agent Allgood opened her briefcase and brought out the silver tape recorder again. She held it up and spoke into it. “This is Special Agent Camerin Allgood. Our location is Guthrie, Georgia. The date is March twenty-eighth, and Special Agent Jackson Harrell is with me in the law offices of…”

Carter handed her a business card.

“Carter Berryhill Senior,” she said. “We are here to take a statement from Dempsey Killebrew, and her attorney is present for these proceedings.”

“Turn off the tape recorder, please, Agent Allgood,” Carter said pleasantly.

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not agency policy.”

Carter folded his hands on his desktop. “Nonetheless, we won’t be proceeding until you’ve turned off the tape recorder.”

She looked at Harrell, who shrugged.

“Fine,” she said. She punched the stop button and tossed it into her open briefcase.

“You called us,” she said finally, sitting back in her chair. “I’m assuming your client has decided to assist us in our investigation.”

Carter opened a manila folder and pushed it across the desk toward Allgood. “My client has come up with a piece of evidence you might find interesting.”

Agent Allgood picked up the folder gingerly, using only her fingertips.

“Don’t worry,” Carter told her. “This is a copy. The original is in my office safe. Feel free to examine it.”

Agent Allgood picked up the paper and read it without comment. She handed it over to Agent Harrell.

“A golf scorecard, from Lyford Cay Resort,” Harrell said finally. “Alex is a decent golfer. Tony, not so much. In fact, it looks like Tony stunk the place up, especially the last three or four holes they played. What, they didn’t finish the round because they were too busy hooking up with whores?”

“Check the back of the scorecard, why don’t you,” Carter suggested.

Harrell turned it over and nodded thoughtfully. He handed it across to Agent Allgood, who read the back, then turned the paper over to look at the golf score again.

“A scorecard, for Alex and Tony—which Alex and Tony, we’re not sure about,” she said finally. “And on the back, a phone number. Pretty convenient for Miss Killebrew.”

“It’s Alex Hodder’s handwriting,” I sputtered. “You can check it out yourself. Check with the pro shop at the resort. Alex and Licata played twelve holes of golf that Saturday morning. I arranged the tee time myself. Alex Hodder came up to my room. He told me Tony’s back was bothering him, and he asked me to call that number and book him a massage.”

“And you kept the piece of paper with the phone number,” Harrell said. “Which you failed to mention until it started to look like you might do some serious jail time for bribing a public official.”

“I’d forgotten all about the scorecard,” I said hotly. “Until today. I just assumed I’d thrown it out, because I did remember throwing away
the piece of paper with the phone number for the wakeboard instructor. But Carter asked me to write down everything I could remember about my dealings with Licata. I did that. I wrote it all down, and brought it over here earlier today.”

“And I read what she’d written,” Carter said, holding up the pages he’d printed out. “She was able to come up with more details about the trip to the Bahamas with Hodder and Licata. I asked her some questions about the evening Hodder came to her hotel room—”

Harrell sniggered. Allgood shot him a dirty look.

“Nothing happened!” I insisted. “He gave me the phone number and asked me to book the massage session for Licata, in his room. We were supposed to have dinner together, but Alex said there’d been a change of plans. He left. I ordered room service. You can check with the hotel. Check the AmEx receipts, since you seem to have all of them. I ordered dinner for one. Caesar salad, mahimahi with mango salsa, half a bottle of white wine. And a piece of cherry cheesecake,” I said, blushing. “It was my last night in the Bahamas. I decided to treat myself.”

“Riiight,” Harrell said.

Carter, bless him, cleared his throat. He looked from me, to Agent Allgood, to Agent Harrell.

“If you-all don’t mind,” he said slowly. “I’d like to talk deal.” He handed both the agents a sheaf of paper, which I knew was the printout of my Hoddergate document.

“Miss Killebrew has gone into detail about her recollections of her dealings with Representative Licata and Mr. Hodder,” Carter said. “You already have the AmEx receipts. And now you have her statement and more important, you have proof that Alex Hodder instructed her to call what she believed was a legitimate massage therapist, to authorize what she believed was a legitimate therapeutic massage for Representative Licata.”

Camerin Allgood smiled, but not in a good way. Her small, perfect teeth reminded me of a carnivorous rodent.

“It’s a start,” she said.

“What more do you want?” I asked desperately, leaning forward until I was only inches from Camerin Allgood’s sweat-beaded face. “I’m
not Mata Hari, okay? I’m a lobbyist, not a secret agent. My boss gave me an assignment. I did what he asked. I had no
friggin’
idea my boss, and his client, were bribing a United States congressman. I didn’t think I was doing anything illegal, so I didn’t get any notarized dossiers, and I didn’t happen to have a video camera on me down there in the Bahamas. You can believe me, or not believe me, but that’s the truth.” I crossed my arms over my chest, just willing Camerin Allgood to push me one inch closer to a nervous breakdown.

She leaned back in her chair, and a moment later, I leaned back in mine.

“The scorecard is helpful,” she said finally. “We already have samples of Alex Hodder’s handwriting, so we should be able to authenticate the card.”

“Thank you!” I blurted out.

She stood up. Harrell looked surprised. He stayed seated.

“Jackson?”

He stood, like an obedient sidekick. Or lapdog.

Agent Allgood threw the sheaf of papers in her briefcase and snapped it shut. “We’ll need the original scorecard to give to the forensics unit,” she said.

Carter nodded. “Fine. But before we surrender the original, we’ll want a written agreement from the U.S. attorney’s office stipulating that my client fully cooperated with this investigation, and that his office will drop any pending charges against Miss Killebrew.”

“That’s not how it works, Mr. Berryhill,” Agent Allgood said, staring down at Carter. “We’ll get a subpoena if we have to. Anyway, if your client wants to prove her innocence, she needs to stop obstructing this investigation.”

“My client is obstructing nothing,” Carter said, his tone still pleasant. “She wants this investigation ended, and more important, she wants her name cleared in connection with these odious charges.”

Odious! I’d never heard anybody use the word before. Coming from Carter Berryhill, the word dripped filth. Odious was exactly how I felt about the whole stinking mess Alex Hodder had gotten me into. “Odious” could be my word for the day. The week, even.

“Before this incident erupted,” Carter went on, “my client was a respected member of the bar. She had a promising career in public relations. All of that ended when your people raided Representative Licata’s office. Somebody started leaking information to the press. All of a sudden, my client loses her job and her standing in the community. Her reputation is smeared. Stories appear in the
Washington Post
accusing her of bribery and solicitation. My client’s father and mother read those stories, Agent Allgood. How do you think they felt, seeing their daughter’s name dragged through the mud like that?”

“Leaks!” Harrell said. “We got nothin’ to do with leaks. Don’t try to put that crap on us. We got no control over what some hack writes in the
Post
.”

“Somebody talked,” Carter snapped. “Somebody who had access to the evidence you people seized from Licata’s office and from Hodder and Associates. That’s why a reporter from the
Post
showed up on Miss Killebrew’s doorstep down here last week.”

He glared up at Camerin Allgood, who took a half step backward.

I wanted to cheer. I wanted to jump up and high-five Carter Berryhill Senior, who’d just forced the baddest badass fed to back down.

Instead, I kept my cool. I stayed seated, with my hands folded in my lap.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d get back to us by the end of the week with that written agreement,” Carter said. “My client wants to get on with her life.”

Allgood nodded curtly. She left as quickly as she’d entered, with Jackson Harrell jogging to keep up with her quickstep.

W
hen I saw the feds drive away in their government-issue navy sedan, I jumped up and gave Carter both the high five and a hug.

“Carter! You were brilliant! Did you see the way that bitch Camerin Allgood backed down? She practically tucked her tail between her legs when she ran out of here.”

He grinned. “I have to admit, our little confrontation today was the most fun I’ve had in a very long time. We country lawyers don’t often get a chance to back-sass government agents.”

“You were awesome,” I said. “I want to be you when I grow up.”

“That’s very flattering coming from a young lady of such high achievements as yourself,” Carter said. “But don’t delude yourself, Dempsey. We might have bested them in this skirmish, but those two are the FBI. They’ll be back, and they won’t back down until you give them everything they want.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “I can prove everything I told them now. So Alex Hodder and Tony Licata can just…kiss my ass.”

“Let me pose a theoretical question, if I may,” Carter said. “Suppose those FBI agents do go away. Suppose they decide not to prosecute you. What’s the next chapter in the Dempsey Killebrew story?”

I blinked. “I get on with my life, just like you said.”

“Which life is that? Your life as a lobbyist in Washington? Or your life here, in Guthrie, fixing up Birdsong?”

My stomach lurched. Carter Berryhill could be a real buzz killer when he wanted to be.

“Dempsey?” He touched my arm gently. “I’m sorry. Your personal life is none of my affair. Please forget I asked.”

“No…it’s okay,” I said haltingly. “It’s a good question. I don’t really know what happens next. Since I’ve been down here, things have been such a mess. I mean, Birdsong was so
not
what I was expecting. I thought I’d just, you know, slap a coat of paint on it, maybe change some light fixtures. But it’s so overwhelming! Every time I start working on one thing, I discover something else that needs to be fixed. Or stripped, or sanded, or rewired, or replumbed, or replaced. It’s, like, there’s no end in sight. So I’ve just been, sort of, taking things one day at a time.”

“Something tells me that’s not your usual approach to life,” he said with a smile.

“No,” I said ruefully. “I’m used to approaching a project, analyzing it, breaking it down into compartments, and then checking off each compartment as it’s completed. You wouldn’t know it by the situation I’m in right now, Carter, but in my real-life world, I’m actually a very efficient, goal-oriented person.”

“This is your real life, Dempsey,” he said. “And contrary to your own, rather harsh assessment, I think you’re doing an exemplary job with Birdsong. And not just the house either.”

His kindness brought me to sudden tears.

“Stop being so nice to me!” I said fiercely. “You’re making me cry, and I don’t feel like crying. I feel like celebrating.” I looked over at the handsome grandfather clock standing in the corner of his office. “God, it’s nearly six. I’ve barely eaten today. I’m hungry! Where’s Tee? I am totally sick of canned soup and cheese and crackers and Hot Pockets. Tee’s been pestering me to go to dinner with him at that country club of yours. So let’s go already. Let’s go out to dinner, all three of us, to celebrate.”

“Oh,” Carter said. “Tonight? Well, I don’t think Tee will be able to make it. He’s got to cover the county commission meeting for that damned paper of his.”

“Fine,” I said. “It’ll be just the two of us then.” I tucked my arm in his, and did a serviceable job of fluttering my eyelashes. “Of course, you’ll have to give me time to go home and shower and get gussied up.”

“Oh, my dear,” Carter said. “I’d like nothing better. But I’m afraid
I have a previous engagement. You’ll have to give the Berryhills a rain check.”

“Of course,” I said, laughing awkwardly. “Actually, I’ve got so much to do back at the house, I have no business going anywhere, except to work. Bobby Livesey is coming over tomorrow, and he wants to get started hanging the cupboard doors, and I haven’t even begun sanding them yet. Never mind me, Carter. I guess I was just giddy from the relief of being out from under this Hoddergate mess.”

“I’d love to take you out to dinner any other night, Dempsey,” Carter said. “With or without my son.”

“I’ll hold you to that promise,” I said, backing out of the office with as much dignity as I could muster.

I started up the Catfish’s engine with no clear idea of where I was going or what I was going to do. Aimless, that’s what I was. My first thought was that I’d take myself out to dinner. Who needed a date? This was the twenty-first century, right? I drove past Guthrie’s two restaurants, and was surprised to see that they were both closed. Oh, right. It was Monday. Lots of restaurants were closed on Mondays. Out of desperation, I drove over to the Canton Buffet out on the bypass. Its gravel parking lot was full, and a line of people stretched out the door. I’d apparently found Guthrie’s idea of a weeknight hot spot.

Suddenly, Chinese food didn’t seem so appetizing. I drove over to Boulevard and pulled into the Bi-Lo shopping center, which was just outside the Guthrie city limits. frozen food festival! proclaimed a hot orange banner draped across the front of the supermarket. Ah yes, these were my people.

I loaded up my grocery cart with all the makings for a multiethnic food fest: frozen burritos, frozen egg rolls, frozen pizza. In an impromptu fit of international goodwill, I even dropped a box of frozen piroshkis into my buggy, wondering, as I did so, if anybody in the entire history of Guthrie, Georgia, had ever sampled a frozen piroshki. To wash down the entrées, I picked up a bottle of inexpensive chardonnay, selected purely because I loved the whimsy of its name, Dimmlylit Cel
lars. Out of guilt, I even made a run down the produce aisle, to pick up a bag of prewashed salad greens and an anemic-looking cucumber.

The store was mostly empty. As the checkout-line cashier rang up my purchases, I tried not to look too obvious as I scanned the tabloid headlines. The
Star
claimed it had witnesses who could prove that Princess Diana was living in a Mormon conclave under an assumed name. Since I was planning an evening of gourmet excess, I decided to add a helping of empty literary calories to the agenda. The cashier, a rail-thin middle-aged woman with a frizzy red perm laughed when she saw me add the tabloid to the conveyor belt.

“Yeah, I had to buy that one too,” she said. “Where you reckon these magazines come up with this shit they print?”

“Dunno,” I admitted. “But I guess it’s a safe bet Prince Charles isn’t going to sue them for libel, right?”

“That’s the truth,” she said. She cocked her head and gave me a closer look now that I’d established myself as a confidante. “Hey, excuse my manners, but aren’t you the Dempsey girl who’s fixing up that old house downtown?”

“That’s me,” I said lightly. I held out my hand, and we shook. “I’m Dempsey Killebrew,” I said. “Mr. Norbert was my great-great-uncle, although I’m sorry to say I never met him.”

She gestured at her name badge. “I’m Janette. Janette Hoover. Head cashier, like that counts for anything when there’s just the three of us anyway, and Beatle, he don’t count because he’s only half days.”

“Nice to meet you, Janette.”

“You’re the one from Washington, right?”

“Yes.” I was hoping we were going to leave it at that. I took out my billfold to pay for my groceries.

“Listen,” she said, her voice lowered in a conspiratorial whisper. “There’s something I want to tell you, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“All right.”

“I just wanna tell you that I’ve seen them federal agents running around town the past few days, asking a lot of questions about you.”

“Oh.” I felt my face reddening. I had a sudden desire to join Princess Diana in that Mormon conclave.

“Makes me so mad I could just spit!” Janette fumed. “We got to get the government out of our private lives. From what I hear around town, they’re trying to say you bribed a congressman, and I don’t know what all. I think that’s just a bunch of shit, ya know?”

“Well…thanks,” I stammered. “I appreciate your vote of confidence.”

“Every single one of those jokers up in Washington is a crook, as far as I’m concerned,” Janette said. “And I know you’ve got Mr. Carter Berryhill working for you, so you must be good people. Mr. Carter, he handled my divorce, and my mama’s divorce, and my sister’s divorce too. Next time you see him, you tell him Janette says hey, will you?”

“I certainly will,” I said, handing over my money.

She bagged up my groceries and then, glancing around to make sure no government types were spying on us, she casually flipped in copies of the
National Enquirer
and the
Weekly World News
. “On the house,” she whispered. “Check out the article in the
Enquirer
about John F. Kennedy’s love child with Marilyn Monroe!”

By the time I got back to Birdsong, I’d mapped out a plan for the evening. I would uncork my bottle of Dimmlylit wine, drop in a couple of ice cubes, and enjoy a leisurely dinner while perusing the literature I’d just gotten. Eventually, I promised myself, I would get around to sanding those cabinet doors. But first, I was determined to celebrate my small victory over the FBI.

It had gotten dark out, but I noticed, with appreciation, that Ella Kate had thoughtfully turned on the porch light for me. Maybe, I thought, her attitude toward me was thawing. Maybe we’d even share a piroshki or an egg roll tonight.

I heard cheery whistling as I picked my way up the broken concrete sidewalk toward the house. Did I say cheery? Definitely not Ella Kate.

“Hello?” I called out. As I got closer to the front porch, I smelled fresh paint fumes.

“Well, hey there, lady,” Jimmy Maynard called. I stepped up onto the porch. He’d been painting, all right. In fact, the whole wall had been transformed with a soft green shade of paint that looked suspiciously like dill pickle cut with 25 percent white.

I set my grocery bags down on the porch and gaped.

“You’re speechless with gratitude, right?” He wiped his hands with a rag. He was dressed the way I’d seen him dressed every other time we’d met—in golf clothes. Tonight he wore a pale yellow polo shirt topped with a blue-and-green-striped sweater vest, worn over khaki shorts. He wore Top-Siders and no socks. Despite all the painting he’d done, there was not a drop of paint on him that I could see, and the porch floor was similarly tidy.

“I don’t know what to say,” I said finally. “You’re amazing, to say the least.”

He’d rigged up a work light on a tripod, and it was aimed at the wall he’d painted.

“Amazing.” He grinned, and his even white teeth shone in his deeply tanned face. “The lady says I’m amazing and she hasn’t even seen my best work yet.” He dropped a kiss on my cheek. “But you will, darlin’, you will.”

“Should I ask what you’re doing?”

He shrugged. “I was at the Benjamin Moore store this morning, buying some decorator white for one of my rental properties, and I started looking at paint chips, and I said, dammit, Jimmy, if you don’t put a coat of dill pickle on Dempsey’s house, nobody will. I came over here, knocked on the door, and nobody was around. I went on and ran some errands, and when I came back by, Ella Kate came to the door and said you’d gone out—she didn’t know where, or when you’d be back. She tried givin’ me the old Ella Kate skunk eye, but I flung it right back at her.”

“You’ve painted the whole front of the house,” I said, walking back and forth. “I can’t believe it. In one afternoon.”

“Well, not the whole front,” Jimmy said. “Just the first floor. I thought you might think I was pushy if you came home and found my extension ladders set up and everything. Fortunately for you, Birdsong hadn’t been painted in so long, most of that old pink paint had flaked right off. I ran a palm sander over the front here, cleaned it up with my Shop-Vac, got her primed, and just did manage to get a base coat down before it got too dark to see.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you like it. Say you love it. Say you’ll have dinner with me and stay over for breakfast too.”

I laughed despite myself. “You’re something else, Jimmy Maynard.”

“I’ll take that as a yes then,” he said.

“Yes, I like the paint. Yes, I’ll have dinner with you. But that’s as far as it goes,” I warned.

“We’ll see,” he said, and then he began to whistle again.