Deadly Catch (21 page)

“Electrical short, according to the official report. Insurance check’s in the mail.”

Pickron grunted and shifted some papers on his desk. “You got anything for me?”

“Maybe, if you’re willing to listen with an open mind,” I said, pulling my cell phone from my pocket. I brought up the photos I’d taken on my trip to Grand Gator Bay and showed them to him. “I found out this was a favorite haunt of Brett Barfield’s. He and Maddie used to do a lot of camping up there.”

The sheriff stared at the photos a minute and grunted again. “So, you think he was growing pot in the national forest.”

“He sure as hell wasn’t growing daisies. I’ve got a witness who went camping with him and Maddie a couple of times. My witness saw Barfield disappear through a titi thicket more than once to get to this place.”

“Who’s the witness?”

I shook my head. “Can’t tell you now. If word got out, it might blow my cover.”

Pickron handed the phone back. “This doesn’t prove anything.”

“No? It places Brett Barfield in an area where there are trip wires on a trail and dozens of seedling containers,” I said. “And I’d bet my ass if you sent a team out there and searched the place good, you’d find evidence of marijuana still around somewhere.”

He gave a wave of his hand. “It’s outside my jurisdiction.”

“Well, then, call whoever the hell’s jurisdiction it is.”

“It still wouldn’t prove Barfield’s involvement.”

Damn, Bocephus could be a stubborn SOB. “I’ve got another witness who says Brett was dealing to students back in high school.”

Pickron’s eyebrows arched. “I suppose you can’t ID this person either.”

“Not until we know more. It could put his or her ass in a sling.”

“That all?”

“No, but what’ve you got for me?” So far this “give and take” had been all me giving and all him taking.

“A couple of investigators are looking into things. If they turn up anything useful, I’ll let you know.”

I lifted a hand, rubbed my eyes a few seconds, and blew out a breath. “You know, if it was
my
niece who got fished out of the bay, I’d try to make this a two-way street.”

“Is that all?” Pickron said again.

“Does the name Tom Mayo mean anything to you?”

He thought about it a minute. “There was a Mayo with the St. George Police a while back. I believe he was let go.”

“That’s the man. You know why Merritt had him canned?”

The sheriff leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk. “Look, McClellan, that’s St. George business. I got enough on my plate handling county—”

“Mayo was the arresting officer when Brett Barfield got busted for possession.”

“And your point is?”

“I did my research. The second time, Barfield had enough pot on him to face doing time if convicted. Ben Merritt made sure that didn’t happen. I’d give big odds he framed his own officer. Made it look like Mayo planted the pot in Barfield’s vehicle.”

The sheriff’s face squinched up like he had bad gas. “Why would Merritt do that?”

I stared Pickron in the eye. “Because he was on the take, keeping Brett Barfield out of the slammer.”

He kicked back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Where’s the proof, McClellan? So far all I’ve got out of you is a bunch of goddamn speculation.”

I stood up and pulled out my wallet, found the photo of Brett I’d clipped from the newspaper, and laid it on the desk.

“What’s this?” the sheriff said, glancing at it.

“Your brother-in-law’s biological son.”

“You should’ve seen the look on Pickron’s face when I told him that,” I said, as Kate handed me a beer and sat across from me at her kitchen table. She had invited me for supper and given the okay for me to spend another night. I’d let the day get away from me after my meeting with the sheriff.

I grinned, thinking about how red Pickron’s face had turned, how his jaw clenched so tight I swore I heard his teeth grinding. “I thought for a minute he was going to arrest me for libel or at least kick me out of his office.”

Kate didn’t find it funny. “You need to stop making waves, Mac. You’ve already got Chief Merritt on your butt. You don’t need Bo biting it, too.” She got up and stirred the pot of spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove. “I thought you two were supposed to be working together, not seeing who can piss off who the most.”

I swallowed a swig of beer. “We are. It’s just that Pickron won’t listen unless you slap him upside the head. Figuratively speaking, I mean.”

Kate sat back down and took a sip of red wine. “So, what happened after you slapped him upside the head?”

“He calmed down and listened to me, believe it or not. I gave him the whole spiel about how I think Harper, Barfield, and Merritt are in cahoots with this drug thing. He didn’t like it, but after he chewed on it a while he admitted there might be something to it.”

“What about Mayor Harper being Brett’s real dad?”

“Big skeleton in the closet. Turns out Pickron’s known it for years. He said that’s why his sister hates the Barfields so much, especially Nora and Brett. Both families have kept it hush-hush for the kids’ sake. It’s just like I thought—Marilyn puts up with George for his money and their social standing.”

“Maddie’s money,” Kate said, getting up to stir the sauce again.

“Most of it, yeah. That’s one reason Pickron bought my theory. He thinks it’s plausible that George might’ve gotten involved in drugs as a hedge against losing most of his brother’s money to Maddie.”

Kate leaned against the counter, sipped her wine, and frowned. “Except Maddie’s dead, and now the Harpers get to keep her inheritance.”

“Yeah.” I finished my beer. “You’re off tomorrow, right?”

“Finally. Why?”

“We’re going to Alabama.”

After Kate agreed to make the trip with me, I called Mrs. Mayo to see if she’d be up for a visit to talk about her late husband’s relationship with Chief Ben Merritt. I wanted Kate along, not only for her company, but I thought Mrs. Mayo might be more comfortable and receptive if another woman was present. Joyce Mayo sounded pleased that someone had taken an interest in Tom’s firing and hinted that she had info I might find helpful.

It was about a two-hour drive to Headland. On the way up Kate sprang a big surprise on me. “Maddie didn’t smoke marijuana.”

I raised my hands off the steering wheel for a second in disgust. “You going to start that again? Her samples say she did.”

“Well, she did try smoking it a couple of times, but she didn’t care for it. Sara told me all about it Sunday at work.”

“Right. Bumblebees can’t fly, either.”

Kate’s eyebrows arched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know; bad analogy. Look, the autopsy samples showed she’d been using the crap for a while, so Sara’s either ignorant or lying. Get over it.”

Kate gave me a light punch on the arm to get my attention. I glanced at her. She flashed a smile. “She made brownies and cookies, Mr. Know-It-All. That’s how she was using.”

“Are you kidding?” I’d heard of marijuana brownies before but thought it was more urban myth than reality. So much for my expertise in the fine art of marijuana use.

“No. Sometimes Maddie would bake a batch when Sara was spending the night at the Harpers’.”

“Right under the Harpers’ noses. No pun intended.”

“Yeah, but it was easy enough to get away with,” Kate said. “The secret was in the oil. Maddie would take a bottle of regular canola oil, add ground-up marijuana to it, and simmer it for a couple of hours, being careful that it didn’t boil. That extracted the druggie stuff from the pot. After it cooled, she’d strain the oil back into the bottle. Then all she had to do was follow a regular recipe for brownies or cookies or cake, substituting the pot oil for the same amount of regular oil the recipe called for. And keep the oil hidden from her aunt and uncle, of course.”

Nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee!
jingled through my mind. “Pajama pot parties. I bet Sara Lee wishes she could get a piece of that action.”

Kate laughed. “Good one, Mac.”

“So, little Miss Gillman was a brownie head too?”

Kate sighed. “Now and then, but she’s sworn off it since what happened to Maddie.”

I wouldn’t bet the family jewels on that oath, but I didn’t shoot off my mouth to Kate. “What about Tonya or other kids at their school?”

“Sara didn’t mention any names, but she did say other girls would join in sometimes when Maddie would have a big sleepover.”

“Bet there was a waiting list a mile long,” I muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing, just talking to myself.”

Following the directions Joyce Mayo had given me, I turned off Highway 441 onto a county road, crossed a small bridge, and stopped at the third house on the right. It was a double-wide mobile home but sat on a concrete slab and was underskirted with real brick. A large covered porch fronted the house. From the distance of the neighboring houses on either side, I guessed the lot was at least an acre.

Kate followed as I walked up the steps, crossed the porch, and rang the doorbell. In a few seconds the door was opened by a trim woman around fifty with silver-streaked blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“Mac?” We’d gotten past the surname formalities during last night’s phone call.

I nodded. “Morning, Joyce.” We shook hands. “This is Kate Bell.”

They exchanged greetings, and then Joyce smiled and stepped aside. “Y’all come on in.”

After Kate and I declined our hostess’s offer for coffee or something else to drink, we took seats in the comfortable living room. Right away I noticed a couple of manila envelopes on the coffee table separating the recliner rocker Joyce chose and the sofa where Kate and I sat. There was an awkward moment of silence that Kate broke by commenting on what a nice home Joyce had.

Joyce forced a little smile. “Tom had such plans when we moved up here. There’s near two acres out back. He was going to buy a tractor and raise a big garden in his spare time. We were planning on opening a produce stand up the road a ways on property Tom’s uncle owns.” She sighed. “That all ended with Tom’s accident.”

“Do you remember a kid named J.D. Owens?” I said. “Your husband coached him when he played basketball in the city recreation league.”

She smiled. “J.D.? Sure, he was one of Tom’s favorites. He wasn’t the best athlete on the team, but Tom was always talking about how J.D. had heart and hustle. He said he’d take that over natural ability any day.”

“He’s a patrolman with the St. George police now,” I said. “J.D. said he’d heard his father mention that there was some bad blood between your husband and Ben Merritt. You got any idea what that might’ve been about?”

Joyce lifted a hand and massaged her forehead a few seconds. “Oh, my, where to begin?” She clasped her hands in her lap and slowly rocked back and forth in the chair. “Tom and Ben were in the Security Police together in the Air Force, what the Army would call your Military Police? They retired around the same time and went to work for the Palmetto County Sheriff’s Department.

“Ben was planning on running for sheriff when Henry Pickron retired, only his son come home a hero from that war over in Africa and got elected instead. Do y’all know Bo?”

Kate and I indicated we did.

“Anyway, Ben took a disliking to the new sheriff, so him and Tom left the county and hired on with the St. George Police. Just a while later the chief resigned and moved on to somewhere, and the city hired Ben as the new chief.”

“Did your husband ever mention Ben having any dealings with the mayor, George Harper?” I said.

Joyce pressed her lips together. “Funny you mentioned that. Tom said Ben was always kissing up to the mayor. He never told me why directly, but I think it had something to do with keeping some kids out of trouble. Tom would come home fuming about how Ben wouldn’t let him do his job proper.

“Y’all sure you don’t want some coffee? I could use a cup.”

Kate and I said coffee would be fine; black for both of us.

Joyce returned in a couple of minutes with cups on a tray. After we were served, I decided to get down to the nitty-gritty. “Joyce, did your husband think Ben Merritt was on the take?”

Joyce leaned over the table and added a spoonful of creamer to her cup. “Tom never said so directly,” she said, slowly stirring the coffee, “but I got that feeling. He didn’t want me getting involved in his work, you see.”