Deadly Catch (8 page)

“Learned from who, Bo Pickron?”

“Yes. Does that bother you?”

“No.” It was a lie. I finished the beer and opened another, my mind swirling. The newlyweds obviously hadn’t made it to the Appalachian Trail, or if they had, it was one hell of a short hike. How did they wind up back in this area without anyone knowing about it? And why hadn’t Maddie or Brett contacted friends or family?

Maddie, especially. A newlywed with a baby on the way. Wasn’t that usually a time of joy for young women; a time for wedding planning and baby showers, and sharing with close friends the fantasies of happily-ever-after married life?

And what about Brett Barfield? Just where the hell was he? No word from him or Maddie in a month, and now his lovely young bride turns up, not refreshed and invigorated from honeymooning on the Appalachian Trail, but as crab bait in a tangle of sea grass just a few miles from his family’s business.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that maybe the Harpers had good cause to dislike the young man after all.

The medical examiner’s office released the remains of Madison Lynn Harper to the family on Wednesday. The funeral was scheduled for two p.m. Friday at St. George United Methodist Church. When Kate asked me to escort her to the service, I agreed. I knew she could use the support; Kate and Maddie had grown close during the few summers they worked together at Gillman’s. I also felt obligated to attend because I was the person who had found poor Maddie’s body. I’d come to hate memorial services, but I knew in this case it was the right thing to do.

On Friday afternoon I followed the directions Kate had given me, turning left onto Seventh Street in front of The Green Parrot Bar and Grill. I counted six blocks, then began checking house numbers on the right and pulled into Kate’s driveway. It was a modest one-story stucco cottage, painted aqua with darker blue trim. The lawn was freshly mowed, and a flower garden fronted the porch on both sides of the steps. I straightened my fake necktie and climbed out of the truck just as the front door opened and Kate stepped onto the porch. She waved and closed the door.

“You look very nice,” I said, admiring the knee-length navy dress as I held open the passenger-side door. It was the first time I’d seen her wearing anything other than a Gillman’s polo with jeans or shorts.

Kate managed a smile. “Thanks, Mac, you look good yourself, all dressed up,” she said, sliding onto the seat and straightening her hem.

The church sanctuary was packed. There were few dry eyes as we walked past row after row of mourners come to pay their last respects. A pew had been reserved near the front for the employees of Gillman’s Marina. Sara sat between her parents, dabbing now and then at red, swollen eyes with a handkerchief she clutched in her lap. Kate walked past the pew to the closed casket that was surrounded and covered with dozens of beautiful floral arrangements. I followed and stood at parade-rest with head bowed. Kate sniffled and reached out to touch a large framed photo of Maddie Harper resting atop the ornate casket.

Big, tough Marine that I’d always considered myself to be, my gut wrenched and my throat tightened when I gazed at the photograph. Until that moment I hadn’t allowed myself to consider the body I’d found to be anything other than a non-person, a lump of bloated flesh, faceless, nameless, like the mujahedeen we’d fought to the death in the streets and buildings of Fallujah. But Madison Lynn Harper had been much more than that. She’d been a beautiful young woman, vibrant, alive, with what should have been a long, wonderful life ahead of her. But Maddie had been cheated out of all that, her life and future snatched away in a moment of terror I could only imagine.

My Megan’s face flashed through my mind as I blinked back a tear. What would I feel if it were her lying dead in that casket, gone forever before she’d had the chance to really experience all life had to offer? I couldn’t imagine. The thought scared and sickened me. I glanced at Maddie Harper’s image once more as Kate turned to go.

I uttered a silent prayer, and then swore I wouldn’t rest until I found out what, or who, was responsible for Maddie’s death.

The phone call from Sheriff Bo Pickron early Monday morning took me by surprise. Could I stop by his office sometime soon? he’d asked. There was something he wanted to discuss with me. I agreed to meet him at two that afternoon.

I’d spoken to Pickron after Maddie’s funeral to offer my condolences. He was visibly upset, shaking my hand and managing to choke out a weak “thank you.” It wasn’t what I’d expected from the growling hulk I’d butted heads with at the Trade Winds the day I’d discovered the body. Not even the comforting hug Kate gave Bo could dispel the pang of sympathy I felt for the guy at the moment.

George and Marilyn Harper were standing next to Pickron in the family receiving line. Marilyn Harper could barely stand. She leaned heavily against her brother (not her husband, I noted). Dark circles beneath reddened eyes trumpeted pain from her death mask of a face. When I said how sorry I was for her loss, she’d blubbered something I couldn’t make out, her breath reeking of alcohol. Maddie’s Aunt Marilyn was soaked with grief, head to foot.

By contrast, if there was anything to be read from George Harper’s expression, it was a hefty dose of stoicism. There was no sign of grief or pain in his eyes or the lines of his face, and he acknowledged my words of condolence with a mere nod. Maybe he was simply the strong, silent type. Maybe.

A somber Sheriff Pickron was standing behind his desk when I walked into his office. He extended his arm across the big oak desk, and we shook hands. He motioned to a nearby chair. “Have a seat.”

When we were both seated he slid open a desk drawer. “I’ve got something for you,” he said and slid my pocketknife across the desk.

I slipped the knife into my shorts pocket, fighting the urge to smart-off about him being absolutely certain it wasn’t the murder weapon. The lingering image of Maddie’s photo on the casket stopped me. “Thanks. What about my rod and reel?”

“No can do. If this turns out to be murder and goes to trial, we’ll need it for evidence.”

Truth is, I was somewhat relieved to hear it. I wanted no part of that combo or lure after what I’d caught.

The sheriff leaned forward, resting both arms on the desk. “Listen, McClellan, I think we got off on the wrong foot that day you . . .” He turned his head and stared out the window to his left. “I had no idea it might be my niece. She was supposed to be somewhere up in the Georgia or North Carolina mountains.”

“I already told you how sorry I am about Maddie,” I said. “I have a daughter and son near her age.” I knew he hadn’t called me to his office just to return my knife, or for a social visit, but I wasn’t going to push him for a reason.

“There was no water in Maddie’s lungs,” Pickron blurted out. “She died from blunt force trauma to the head, or a broken neck. Either one would’ve been fatal. It’ll be on the news this evening, so that’s on the record.” He stared hard, like he was trying to see through me. “What I’m about to tell you is strictly off the record. Not a word to anyone. Agreed?”

“You’ve got my word,” I said, wondering why the hell he would tell me anything in confidence.

“I’m telling you this because I think somebody is trying to set you up. That bag of pot they found on your boat? A month ago a bale of it washed up on the island not far from where you found Maddie.”

It hardly made sense for the sheriff to swear me to silence over a pot bale washing ashore, since the incident had made the local news before I arrived in the area. “Chief Merritt already told me that. He called it Panama Red, said it was unusual stuff. Is that what I’m supposed to keep quiet about?”

Pickron frowned and shook his head. “Think about it a minute, McClellan,” he said, sounding more like the old Bo. “You show up in St. George, find a body near where a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of pot washed up, then somebody plants a bag of the same crap on your boat. If I’m reading this right, you’re being targeted for whatever reason, and that might be some help to me down the line.”

And if
I
was reading this right, Bo Pickron had an idea I might make good bait for whoever was running drugs into the area. I had no idea how Maddie had wound up behind the Trade Winds Lodge when she was supposed to be honeymooning six hundred miles away in the mountains, but I still wasn’t totally convinced there was a link between her death and the Panama Red.

I took a deep breath and let it out. “So, you’re telling me you think there’s a connection between your niece’s death and the marijuana?”

Pickron leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingertips together, forming a steeple. “I told you what the autopsy showed.”

I nodded. “But it could’ve been a boating accident. Maybe she and Brett were hot-rodding and ran into a piling or something; Maddie got thrown out and hit her head.”

“There’s only one problem with that,” Pickron said, opening the drawer again and shoving some papers my way. “That’s the autopsy report. Check the bottom of page three.”

I did as the sheriff instructed. I read it again, then looked up and met Bo Pickron’s eyes.

“Limestone?”

By the time I left the sheriff’s office I’d learned a few things. For starters, Sheriff Bocephus Pickron and Chief Benjamin Merritt didn’t care much for each other. Whether their beef was a personal or professional matter I had no clue, but I intended to find out. Because the body was found outside the city of St. George’s jurisdiction, Pickron had chosen not to share with Merritt or the media the fact that traces of limestone rock were imbedded in Maddie’s scalp where her skull was bashed in.

Madison Lynn Harper was indeed pregnant, somewhere near the end of the first trimester, according to the report. That backed up Sara Gillman’s story of why Maddie and Brett decided to elope. There were also traces of tetrahydrocannabinol—THC—found in Maddie’s hair and fatty tissue samples, which showed she had used marijuana in the not-too-distant past. Not a wise thing for an expectant mother, but the drug residue could have pre-dated Maddie’s pregnancy.

Regarding Maddie’s death, Brett Barfield was top dog among Pickron’s suspects. Due to the corpse’s deteriorated condition, the coroner was unable to determine whether the death was accidental or had resulted from foul play, but Pickron was absolutely convinced Brett Barfield was responsible. An all-points bulletin had been issued throughout the Southeast with a detailed description of the suspect and the vehicle he’d been driving when he and Maddie left the area.

The plot thickened. Shortly after the alleged elopement, Brett’s father, Clayton Barfield, had called the sheriff to report that Brett’s personal 18-foot runabout was missing. Mr. Barfield believed his son had been working on it in one of the repair buildings, but when he looked for the boat, it was gone.

What possible purpose would Brett and Maddie have had for a boat if they were hiking the Appalachian Trail? Could someone have stolen Brett’s runabout to make it look like he and Maddie had met with an unfortunate accident while boating in the bay?

There was yet another reason why the sheriff had less than a glowing opinion of young Barfield. While still in his teens, Brett had been busted twice by the St. George Police Department for possession of marijuana. Neither charge had stuck. The Barfield family had a slick lawyer from Tallahassee and, apparently, someone with important connections in the hierarchy of Palmetto County politics. One charge had been dropped completely, the other, much more serious involving enough pot for distribution, was reduced to a misdemeanor. But the closest Brett Barfield had come to serving hard time was picking up trash along local roadways for a few weekends.