Deadly Catch (15 page)

Investigators were still going over the boat, he said, and if they found anything of interest he’d be sure to let me know. I knew a brush-off when I heard one. At least he hadn’t un-deputized me, but I wondered just how much backing I could expect from his office if I found myself in a tight spot.

Around nine-thirty I headed east on Highway 98. It was time to pay a visit to Barfield Fisheries. I decided on a cold call instead of giving them advance notice that I was coming. Twenty minutes later I pulled through the open gate of the Barfield business, which was surrounded by an eight-foot chain-link fence topped with barbed wire standoffs. The weather had been dry lately, and my truck raised a cloud of dust as I drove along the crushed shell road. There were several tall metal buildings roughly the same size, all painted a faded aqua with off-white trim. I spotted the office and parked in front.

A cute young lady in her late teens or early twenties was sitting behind a desk talking on the phone as I walked in. She had a shock of curly red hair, and her pale skin was dotted with freckles.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” she said, jotting some numbers on a slip of yellow paper. “Right, a hundred pounds of thirty-one forties. Yes, sir, they’ll be on tomorrow morning’s truck.”

I glanced around the room while pretty Orphan Annie took care of business. The walls were paneled in cypress. A few serviceable chairs were arranged along one wall with a couple of lamp tables stacked with magazines thrown into the mix. Several species of salt water fish were mounted on the walls, and behind the young lady’s desk a beautiful seven- or eight-foot sailfish looked like it would dart away if returned to the water.

“Can I help you, sir,” she said, looking up and smiling as she hung up the phone.

“Is Mr. Barfield in?”

“Which Mr. Barfield do you want?”

“Clayton,” I said. I’d overlooked the fact that he might have brothers or other kin working in the family business.

She picked up the phone and punched in a number. “Miz Nora, is Mr. Clayton in his office? There’s a gentleman here to see him.”

She moved the phone from her ear and covered the mouthpiece. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Mac McClellan.”

The redhead repeated my name to Miz Nora. Her smile faded, and her cheeks lost what little color they’d held before. “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

“You can go on back, sir,” she said, pointing past her desk to a hallway. “Mr. Barfield’s down on the docks right now, but his wife will see you. Third door on the left.”

From the redhead’s expression, the Barfields were acquainted with my name. I didn’t know if that would work for or against me, but I’d sought them out, so there was no turning back now. I walked down the hallway past photos of boats and people and ball teams lining the walls. The door was open, but I knocked on the frame anyway.

“Please, come in,” a pleasant voice said.

I did and was met by a striking lady with jet-black hair and flawless olive skin standing beside a large oak desk. She was decked out in a black knee-length skirt, a white blouse that left just a hint of cleavage showing to grab your attention, and a fancy gold necklace riding just above the attention grabber. Filipino and white, I guessed; I’d seen the combo many times on base. Early forties, maybe. Whatever her age or heritage, she was one sweet package.

“I’m Nora Barfield,” she said, extending her hand, “Clayton’s wife.”

“Mac McClellan, pleased to meet you,” I said, careful to keep my eyes above the danger zone. I saw now where Brett got his dark coloring.

At her invitation I took a seat near the desk. She sat behind it where I wouldn’t be distracted by the shapely calves I’d noticed beneath the skirt at first glimpse. Something told me I’d seen her before. I doubted it was at Maddie’s funeral. Given the bad blood between the two families, I couldn’t imagine this genteel lady chancing a ruckus by showing up there even if it was to pay last respects to her son’s late girlfriend.

“You’re the gentleman who found our Maddie,” she said, now looking close to tears.

“Yes, ma’am. That was a terrible day.”

Her eyes were brimming. “And now they’ve found my boy’s boat. Clay and I had already prepared ourselves, trying to keep busy and all, but I was still hoping . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

She looked up, still blotting the tears. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. McClellan. They were so young, so much in love, and . . .”

I waited a second for her to compose herself. “Not at all,” I said, feeling my throat tighten. “I’ve very sorry for your loss.” I was, too. I’d had a bellyful of seeing people grieve. Mike and Megan ran through my mind. I tried to shut them out, not knowing how I’d be able to carry on if I ever lost them.

“Well,” she said, sniffing. She sat up straight and forced a smile. “What is it you’d like to see my husband about?”

“I hate to bother you at a time like this,” I said, wondering if she was purposely acting as a shield for her husband. “After I discovered Miss Harper’s body I felt a responsibility to find out what happened to her and your son. I guess it’s because I have children myself near their age.”

She pulled a fresh tissue from a box on the desk, turned her head, and gently blew her nose. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

I cleared my throat and leaned forward in the chair. “Do you happen to know Kate Bell? She worked with Maddie at Gillman’s Marina the past few summers.”

Mrs. Barfield nodded. “I’ve met Kate. Brett and Maddie always spoke highly of her.”

“And I’m sure you know Sara Gillman.”

“Yes, of course. Sara was Maddie’s best friend. My son loved her like a sister.” She hesitated a moment. “If you don’t mind my asking again, why exactly are you here?”

“Mrs. Barfield, do you have any idea why your son and Maddie led you to believe they were spending time in the mountains when they intended to go to south Florida?”

Her brow arched. “Who told you that?”

“Sara told Kate Bell, Kate told me.”

Nora sighed heavily. “Then it’s true. I’d heard rumors; kids can’t seem to keep secrets.” She dabbed at her nose with the tissue again. “I don’t know why,” she said, “other than they were trying to keep it from Marilyn Harper. She never approved of their relationship.”

I’d beat around the bush too long already, so I just spit it out. “I’m aware there’s been bad blood between the Harpers and Barfields for a long time. When I spoke with Marilyn Harper she had less than flattering things to say about your family, your son in particular. I was wondering if you could shed some light on that for me.”

Nora stood and walked to the window behind the desk. She stared out for a moment, her back to me. When she turned, she crossed her arms under her breasts and lifted a hand to stroke the hollow of her neck. “Marilyn has hated me ever since high school,” she said. “I tried hard to be her friend when my family first moved here, but she made it impossible.

“I was voted captain of the cheerleading squad and homecoming queen our senior year. Marilyn couldn’t stand me because of that. She was the most selfish, self-centered person you could imagine,” she said, voice rising. “She hated the thought of anyone stealing the limelight from her, jealous of anyone else’s accomplishments, even her own sister’s!

“You wouldn’t think it of identical twins, but the only thing those two had in common was their looks. Mynta was sweet and kind; she’d do anything for you. But Marilyn . . . let’s just say you wouldn’t want to turn your back to her. You might wind up with a knife stuck in it. And she hasn’t changed in all these years, not one iota!”

During Nora’s tirade it dawned on me where I’d seen her—the
Panthers’ Pride
. There was no mistaking the raven-haired beauty standing with hands on hips in front of the cheerleading squad, flashing a pretty smile and sporting a captain’s “C” above the left breast of her sweater. She’d been Nora Johnson then, if my memory was correct. Okay, so Nora had stolen some of Marilyn’s thunder, but was that cause for such deep hatred?

I recalled my little chat with Marilyn Harper, how she’d ranted about “that woman.” So, Nora Johnson had dated George Harper for a while and then lost him to Marilyn Pickron. Or had she, really?

I was about to ask if she remembered Lamar Randall when the phone rang. Nora answered, said a quick “Thank you,” and hung up.

“I’m afraid I have to run, Mr. McClellan. My husband and I have business to attend to in Parkersville.”

I got up to leave, my chance of talking to Clayton Barfield shot for now. “One quick question before I go?”

“Yes?”

“Marilyn Harper mentioned that you used to date her husband. You think that could have anything to do with why she holds such a grudge against you and your family?”

She frowned and her eyes narrowed to slits. “That’s really none of your concern,” she said, and then showed me the door.

I had baited Nora Barfield with my last question, and her response was about what I’d expected. I was convinced more than ever that she and George Harper had carried a flame for each other long after they’d married their respective spouses. And I’d give good odds that Brett Barfield was proof.

Marilyn Harper had referred to Brett as “that son of hers,” meaning Nora’s, not “theirs.” Nora herself had said “my boy’s boat,” not “our boy’s” boat. Freudian slips? Maybe. I wouldn’t lay my head on the chopping block just yet, but I was as sure as Ivory Soap is pure that Friendly George Harper was Brett Barfield’s biological father.

Sheriff Bo Pickron had mentioned that a slick Tallahassee lawyer and somebody high up the food chain of Palmetto County politics had gotten young Barfield off with a slap on the wrist for the marijuana busts. Both arrests had been made in St. George. Who was in a better position to see that things were swept under the rug than the mayor of the city, especially if it involved his own flesh and blood?

I’d been wrong about Chief Ben Merritt; no way was he feeding out of Bo Pickron’s trough. But Mayor Harper might be tossing enough slop the chief’s way to keep him fat and happy.

I drove straight to the St. George Police Department. Beth had the phone cradled to her ear with a shoulder, tapping on the keyboard while carrying on a conversation that sounded more personal than business. She glanced up but kept to her duties.

“The chief in?”

She held up a finger, said something into the phone about meeting after work, and hung up. She picked the receiver back up and punched a number. “Mr. McClellan is here.”

She placed the receiver in the cradle again. “Go right on in.”

I tapped on the door and walked in. “Well, Mac, it’s been a while,” Chief Merritt said without bothering to stand up or offer a hand. “Have a seat. You come across any more bodies or marijuana lately?” He chuckled at his little joke.

“No, just Brett Barfield’s boat.”

His grin faded. “You found Barfield’s boat? Didn’t know that. Reckon Sheriff Bocephus is keeping things close to the vest these days.”

“Looks that way.” I got right to the point. “How did Brett Barfield manage to beat those two arrests for marijuana possession a while back?”

Merritt rolled his chair back a couple of feet and crossed his arms. “Well, now, I don’t see what business that is of yours.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “Who told you about that?”

“Was he dealing?”

“Whoa, now, we’re stepping into some sticky business here,” he said, face flushing. “Legal stuff. The boy had a big-shot lawyer, and there was a little matter of lack of evidence.” He scooted the chair closer and leaned forward, arms resting on the desktop. “Tell me something, Mac, how come you running around here playing detective all of a sudden?”

“Who said I was?”

“I heard some talk. Not much goes on around here I don’t get wind of, one way or another.”

“Who was the arresting officer?”

“For what?”

“Brett Barfield. Who was the officer that busted him?”

“Look here, McClellan,” he said, his face growing redder, “that’s official police business. It don’t concern you.”

“It’s a matter of public record, Chief. I can go to the courthouse if I need to.”

His jaw tightened. “Sergeant Tom Mayo. Had to let him go a couple of years back.”