Deadly Catch (12 page)

Mare? Why would a woman of her position be nicknamed for a female horse? Then I remembered an actress I’d seen recently on some TV rerun about pioneers, Mare Winningham. I decided Marilyn was informal enough for the mayor’s wife.

We moved to the swanky, cream-colored furniture in the great room. I took a seat on the sofa, while Marilyn sat in one of two plush high-backed chairs a few feet across from me. She crossed her legs in a lady-like fashion and sipped her martini. An awkward moment of silence passed. I’d asked for this meeting, so it was up to me to break the ice.

“I was wondering why you and your husband have always disapproved of Brett Barfield,” I said, noticing that her free foot began to jiggle when I mentioned the name.

She took a long sip, staring at me over the glass. “And who told you that, might I ask?”

I let out a breath. “Kate Bell. Your niece worked with her at Gillman’s Marina.”

Marilyn drained her glass. Her foot jiggled faster. “Would you mind?” she said, holding up the glass.

I hurried to refresh her drink. It seemed like I was onto something, and I didn’t want to blow the opportunity.

“I’ve met Kate,” Marilyn said as I handed her the drink. “She seems like a nice enough young woman, but she doesn’t know what I know about the Barfields. They’re nothing but white trailer trash, and that Brett is the worst of the lot.”

“Sara Gillman doesn’t seem to think so.”

“What would that little snitch know?” Her foot was pumping now.

Little snitch? What would cause Marilyn Harper to call Sara that? “Maddie and Sara were best friends. I’d think she’d know a lot.”

With that, Marilyn’s foot froze. The glare in her eyes was as if someone had suddenly flipped on a hate switch. She uncrossed her legs and stood up. “I don’t give a goddamn
what
Kate Bell or Sara Gillman or anyone else says, for that matter!” She practically spit the words. “The Barfields are trash! That woman has had it in for me ever since George broke up with her to date me, and that son of hers was
never
good enough for my Maddie!”

She waved a circle over her head. “You see all this?” she said in a voice loud and nasty enough to peel paint. “It all belongs to Maddie, it’s all from
her
money! Before Maddie’s parents were killed, the high and mighty Mayor George Harper was nothing but a two-bit car salesman. This is all from blood money,
Maddie’s
money, and now my Maddie is gone!”

She burst out crying. I walked over to see if I could calm her down. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” I meant it; the poor woman had been through enough.

She sat down before I reached her and held up the glass, then covered her face with both hands and sobbed. I refilled the glass again and handed it to her. She had stopped crying.

“You said on the phone that you had some questions for me,” I said.

She slurped down about half the martini and waved her hand. “Never mind,” she said. “I think it’s best if you left.”

“Yes ma’am.” I let myself out.

On the way out the gate I punched in Sheriff Pickron’s personal cell phone number he’d given me after the deputizing hoopla. “Are you at your office?” I said when he answered. “We need to talk.” He was in the vicinity and agreed to meet me at his office in forty-five minutes. I drove through St. George and headed west on Highway 98 toward Parkersville.

I didn’t know what had turned Marilyn Harper into a screaming banshee, but whatever it was had to be something important. Hatred that strong didn’t sprout from just some social spat or disapproval of a niece’s boyfriend. And she didn’t seem particularly fond of Friendly George, either. She had leaned on her brother for support at Maddie’s funeral, and I figured Bo Pickron must have the answers. Whether he was willing to let me in on them was a different matter.

When I got to the office his attractive young secretary announced my arrival and waved me on to Pickron’s office. I walked in and made sure to shut the door behind me, thinking this meeting might turn out to be a little less than cordial. Pickron was sitting on the edge of his desk, arms folded, and didn’t look the least bit happy. I’d counted on the fact that Marilyn would most likely call her brother and whine to him about our little visit, and I wasn’t wrong.

“Just what the hell were you thinking, talking to my sister that way?” he said, loud enough that the closed door probably didn’t offer much privacy, if any.

“Look, you’re the one who asked me to check into Maddie’s death and Barfield’s disappearance. Just how the hell am I supposed to do that if I don’t question people who might know something?”

He got up off the desk and stood right in my face, snarling like one of my drill instructors back on Parris Island. “You stay the hell away from my sister!” he said and poked me in the chest with a finger.

I slapped his hand away, and it was all I could do to keep from smashing my fist into his groin, one of the first moves they’d taught us during hand-to-hand training at P.I. The sudden move caught him off guard, and he backed away, eyes blinking. I figured then he wasn’t used to people pushing back.

“Now hold on, McClellan,” he said after a few seconds. He raised his palms. “You’re right. Let’s calm down and talk this out.”

Bocephus Pickron didn’t exactly bare his soul to me, but I did learn a few things before I left his office a half hour later. Maybe the most important bit of info he coughed up was that Madison Lynn Harper would’ve become a very rich young woman had she lived to see her twenty-first birthday. Her father, Nelson, began dabbling in real estate while still in college, and by his mid-twenties was owner of one of the fastest-growing companies in the Panhandle. Maddie stood to inherit the bulk of several million dollars in stocks, cash, and real estate holdings, plus the Harper house and property she’d grown up in. “Tara” had belonged to Nelson and Mynta Harper, not George and Marilyn.

The way I saw it, because of Maddie’s inheritance, Mayor Harper was one big waving red flag, but Pickron didn’t think so. “I’ve known George all my life,” he said. “He might be a lot of things, but he’s no murderer. He loved my niece like she was his own daughter.”

Because of a medical problem Marilyn was unable to have children, and the Harpers had been looking into adoption before the tragic accident landed Maddie in their laps, and them in the midst of Nelson and Mynta’s fortune and opulent lifestyle.

One thing George Harper was, the sheriff admitted, was a philanderer who couldn’t keep his pants zipped tight. I almost laughed when Pickron told me that. What’s the saying? Brothers-in-law of a feather flock together? Something like that.

George’s indiscretions began while he and Marilyn were dating in high school and had continued throughout their twenty-plus years of marriage. I suppose Marilyn put up with George because she’d grown accustomed to the money and the swanky high-society life it provided, and she valued that more than their wedding vows. Also, I had my doubts that she’d always kept to the straight and narrow path of fidelity herself, though I didn’t mention that to her brother. There was nothing solid to base my suspicions on; it was just my manly intuition talking again.

As for the Barfields, all Pickron knew, or was willing to spill, was that George Harper and Clayton Barfield had been bitter rivals since they were teenagers and couldn’t stand the sight of one another to this day. In high school Clayton Barfield had been an all-conference quarterback, while George Harper saw more action on the bench than on the field.

However, George’s father owned a new- and used-car dealership in Parkersville, and the future mayor motored through his high school years driving a fancy set of wheels. He may not have seen a lot of action on the gridiron, but he certainly had in the backseat of his Pontiac GTO with the fairer sex, a few of whom he’d evidently wooed away from Barfield.

Clayton was the product of more modest means, and he spent most of his time while away from school and sports working hard for his family’s struggling commercial fishing business. As fate would have it, George took over the auto business when his father died and within a few years ran it into bankruptcy. Clayton, on the other hand, labored long and hard to build Barfield Fisheries into one of the most productive fleets on the Gulf Coast.

I turned east onto Highway 98 and headed home. I hoped to see Kate after work and find out what she’d learned, if anything. Her companionship and a beer would sure be a pleasant change after the day I’d had with Pickron and his sister.

And I knew things weren’t going to get any easier when I faced the Barfields.

It was just after four when I pulled into Gillman’s parking lot. I picked a space well away from the maniacal mockingbirds but still kept a wary eye peeled as I walked to the store. There were no customers inside that I could see. Kate was behind the counter poring over some figures with an adding machine. Sara was strolling down an aisle trying to look busy. I waved to Sara and walked over to Kate. I was about to ask if she’d meet me for a drink after work when Lamar Randall came striding in through the back entrance.

“How ’bout it, Mac,” he said, wiping his greasy hands with a shop rag. “I haven’t seen your boat out in a while.”

I shot him a grin. “Been slaying the specks so bad I thought I’d give ’em a couple of days to recover.”

Lamar chuckled, reached up, and adjusted his eye patch. That’s when the tattoo caught my attention. It was one of those crude tattoos with smudgy, faded blue ink that kids often inflict upon themselves or friends in the wayward days of youth. I’d seen it before but never gave it a close look or second thought.

Until now.

Lamar turned his attention to Kate and rested both palms against the edge of the counter, fingers curled up to keep from smearing the glass top. “Would you put two quarts of oil on John Denny’s ticket?”

Kate grabbed a notepad and jotted down the info.

“Oh, and I need to talk to Gary about that Yamaha if he gets back before you close up,” he added. “It might not be worth rebuilding when you count in all the parts and hours it’ll take.”

Kate smiled. “I’ll leave a note on his desk if he’s not back.”

“Now,” she said, after Lamar said his good-byes and made his exit, “what can I do for you, Mr. McClellan?” Kate’s bright eyes gave away her attempt to appear stern and businesslike.

“I was wondering if you might join me at The Green Parrot for drinks and dinner, Miss Bell.”

She grinned, the tiny space between her front teeth peeking from between her lips. “How about my place, six-thirty? There’s a couple of nice thick rib-eyes waiting to be grilled, if you’ll do the honors.”

Driving back to the campground, my anticipation of spending an evening with Kate at her invitation was tempered by what I’d seen spelled out in crude lettering across the fingers of Lamar’s right hand:

Mare.