Demon Hunting In the Deep South (40 page)

Meredith lifted her gaze heavenward, and she tapped her cheek with one finger. “Hmm, let’s see. I’m thinking . . .” She dropped her hand and glared at Evie. “Nope, still don’t give a shit about you or your pathetic little problems.” She pointed to the canvas tent. “See that? That’s me, being stuck in a hole in the ground like the family dog instead of inside the crypt with the rest of the Petersons.” She pointed a red-tipped nail at the stainless steel box resting on the casket placer. “And they’ve put me in a powder blue casket. My nana used to beat me with a house shoe. Powder blue and fuzzy. I
hate
powder blue. Clarice knows it. She did it on purpose.”

“Trey didn’t stop her?” Evie asked.

“Trey’s a guy,” Meredith said. “He wouldn’t know powder blue if it bit him on the ass. And you want to know what really boils my oil?”

“Uh, sure,” Evie lied.

“That ‘big’ donation the Petersons announced night before last, the one to Hannah High in my name?”

“What is it, a new wing?”

“Hah, I wish.” Meredith’s red lips twisted in a sneer. “They’re redoing the girls’ restroom in my memory.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Evie said, not sure what else to say. “You spent a lot of time in there.”

“The Meredith Starr Peterson Memorial
Toilet
? Are you kidding me?” Meredith said with a screech. A gust of wind blew out of nowhere that rattled the tent and lifted Harold Cohn’s toupee. “This stinks out loud. This is not the way it was supposed to be.”

“Now, now, Mrs. Peterson,” Swink said. “You cannot reach ghost actualization as long as you continue to indulge in these temper tantrums.”

“Stick it where the sun don’t shine, Swink.” Meredith’s head snapped up in irritation as the grinding of a motor grew louder. “What
is
that gardener doing? This is a funeral. Has he no couth at all?”

The four-wheeler topped the rise at full speed with a giant bumblebee at the wheel. It was the drunk from the dance; had to be the same guy. How many bumblebee costumes could there be in a town the size of Hannah? The cart swerved on two wheels, righted itself, and headed straight for the funeral tent.

People screamed and scattered. So did Priscilla the possum.

“Priscilla, come back,” Mayor Tunstall said, waddling after Priscilla as the startled possum yanked the leash out of his hand and took off.

“I’ve got you now, demon dog,” the man on the four-wheeler shouted. With a crazed cackle, he chased the terrified animal in circles around the gravesite. “All. Chihuahuas. Must. Die.”

“It’s him! It’s him,” Nicole cried, throwing up her hands in terror. “Run, Frodo. Run!”

But, instead of fleeing, Frodo leaped out of the pet pouch with a savage growl and gave chase.
Blip!
He caught up with the four-wheeler and sunk his teeth into the back left wheel. The tire blew, and the cart careened into the tent, scattering the chairs and knocking the casket off the rack. With a loud crash, the four-wheeler landed nose-down in the grave.

A mist rose out of the hole in the ground and solidified into the form of a man in a bumblebee suit.

“What happened?” The ghost looked around in obvious confusion. “Where am I?”

“You’ve dented my casket and ruined my funeral, you jackass,” Meredith said. “Just for that, I hope you spend the rest of eternity in that ridiculous outfit.”

“Mrs. Peterson, please,” Swink said. “You’ve already said you hate the color of the casket. Let it go. We cannot concern ourselves with earthly matters. We are beyond that now.”

The ghost in the bee suit looked down at the figure in the crumpled cart. “Why is my neck at that funny angle? What the hell’s going on here?”

“I think you may have another client, Mr. Swink,” Evie said.

“Right.” Swink pulled out his pen and notepad. “Name?”

“I’m not certain because I’ve never met him, but I’m pretty sure that’s Sylvester Snippet,” Evie said. “The dog stalker.”

Chapter Thirty-nine

S
ylvester Snippet’s sister arrived on Tuesday and took his body back to Baldwin County to be buried. Things in Hannah settled back down, and the business at the flower shop slowed. But time didn’t slow for Evie. She was on a high-speed train headed for Thursday and the preliminary hearing in district court. Every time she thought about it her stomach did a swan dive, and she thought about it a lot. Ansgar was up to something. All of a sudden, he and Sheriff Whitsun were best buds. Whatever they’d cooked up, Mr. Collier was involved, too. He walked around with an excited gleam in his eyes, rubbing his hands together and mumbling to himself. But he wouldn’t talk to Muddy about it.

“Police business,” he would say, puffing out his chest when she questioned him. This made Muddy nuts, which tickled the stew out of Mr. C.

Something happened on Tuesday afternoon that got Evie’s mind off of her troubles, if only temporarily. Jeannine Mitchell from the Kut ’N Kurl came into the flower shop with a business proposition.

Nodding and smiling at Nicole, Jeannine had said, “I met Nicole at the dance Saturday night and was admiring her hair.”

“Yeah.” Nicole grinned. “I told her all about that hair crack of yours and what it done for me and Frodo. She wouldn’t believe it until I showed her my driver’s license picture. I just got it renewed a few weeks back.” She rustled around in her purse, found her wallet, and pulled out her ID. Mullet Woman smiled back at them from the photograph with her pink and yellow nightmare of a hairdo. Nicole fluffed her now luxurious brown locks. “Me and Frodo got a new lease on life and hair that’s pimping fine thanks to
Fiona Fix-it
.” Her hand stilled. “Say, that ’ud make a good slogan. But don’t put it on your girl fuzz. You’ll be so super fluffy down there you won’t be able to get your britches on.”

“I’ll be sure and put that on a warning label,” Evie had said with a straight face.

Jeannine had ordered a case of
Fiona Fix-it
with a promise to order more if her customers liked it. Evie had the promise of a new career on the horizon . . . if she didn’t spend the next umpteen years in jail.

The preliminary hearing arrived before Evie was ready for it. Like you could ever get ready for a thing like that. As she waited in the courtroom Thursday morning for the proceedings to commence, she was DUI: Decidedly Under the Influence of Ansgar. He’d made sure she had something else to think about the night before, like him and his wonderful hands and his hot mouth and hard body.

Some of her euphoria wore off as she took her place at the defendant’s table with Mr. Collier. She was wearing a conservative navy suit with a notch collar jacket and three-quarter-length sleeves and no jewelry, as suggested by Mr. Collier.

“Don’t wear anything slinky or too flashy,” he’d told her several days before. “No short skirts or cleavage and no open-toed shoes. You want to come across as approachable and sympathetic. Wear something nice, like you’d wear to church, but no polka dots. Judge Ward’s ex-wife loved polka dots. She cleaned his clock, and he loses his grip now when he sees them.”

Mr. Collier sat beside Evie humming to himself as they waited for their case to be called. He looked very handsome and professional in a dark pin-striped suit, starched white shirt, and silk tie. He seemed unconcerned by the upcoming proceedings. Evie wished she could say the same. She was starting to wonder if Mr. C was operating on all cylinders, not a good feeling to have about your lawyer.

She glanced around the courtroom. Nicole was minding the shop so Addy could be here. Bitsy and Muddy were here, too. Evie felt a surge of affection for them, her surrogate family. They had been with her through the horror of Savannah’s disappearance and the deaths of her parents. They would stand by her in this, too, no matter what.

Brand was here, and Ansgar. They sat on one of the high-backed wooden benches on either side of Addy like a pair of matched archangel bookends, one dark and one light. Their otherworldly good looks and the aura of danger they exuded had created quite a stir. The door to the courtroom kept opening and closing as word of the newcomers spread and folks sneaked inside to take a look. The deadly menace the two warriors oozed kept people away, leaving Addy, her mom, and aunt in a vacuum of empty space.

The Petersons sat on the opposite side of the room with Meredith’s family, along with a good number of folks from Hannah. Some were there to show their support of Hannah’s premier family, some for the Starrs. Others had come out of idle curiosity. Trish and Blair were there making googly eyes at Trey, although they didn’t sit beside him. And a good thing, too, because Meredith was next to him, looking cool and elegant in a knit boat neck dress in a pale citron color, with three-quarter-length sleeves. She’d topped off the ensemble with a wide taupe belt and matching heels.

Trey’s grandmother, Clarice, wore a blue sheath dress and coordinating duster. Her hair was carefully arranged, her expression more so. She sat between her husband and Trey, as stiff and lifeless as a doll. If she realized Meredith was there, she was ignoring her. Blake Peterson radiated confidence and power, as usual, in a suit that probably cost more than most people’s cars. He stared straight ahead at the judge’s bench, looking neither to the right nor the left. Trey was wearing a navy blazer and khaki slacks. He looked pale and tired, and seemed as jumpy as a rabbit in a coyote den. From the way he was acting, you’d think
he
was the one on trial, not Evie.

Evie’s pulse rate jumped as a door opened in the mahogany-paneled wall at the back of the courtroom and a man in a black robe entered.

“All rise,” the bailiff said as the district court judge took his place behind the bench.

Evie got to her feet.

“Try to look scared or depressed,” Mr. Collier whispered. “Judge Ward hates a happy defendant.”

Scared was no problem, Evie thought as the courtroom was called to order.

“Sarah Evangeline Douglass.” Hearing the bailiff call her name was like a dash of cold water. “Charge, first-degree murder of Meredith Starr Peterson.”

The last vestiges of Evie’s calm evaporated. Nothing like a little first-degree murder charge to get a girl’s blood pumping first thing in the morning.
Oh Godoh Godoh God.

The silence in the courtroom stretched as District Court Judge Silas Ward, a droopy-eyed man with a face like a beagle, shuffled some papers around behind the bench. He looked up. His dark eyes were flat behind his bifocals.

Shark eyes, Evie thought with a shiver.

“I see the defendant has filed a waiver of arraignment and plea of not guilty,” the judge said. “We will proceed, then. Call you first witness, Mr. Dean.”

The ADA, a pleasant-faced man with glasses and a receding hairline, cleared his throat. “The State calls Mamie Louise Hall to the stand.”

Dismay washed over Evie. Miss Mamie was the biggest gossip in three counties.

Miss Mamie was sworn in and took the stand, describing in vivid detail the scene in the flower shop a few days before Meredith’s murder.

“. . . and Meredith came in to the shop and she seemed really upset,” Miss Mamie said, smiling at the ADA. “She was all red in the face, and she had this little fleck of spit right here.” The old lady pointed to her bottom lip. “I remember thinking,
She’s so mad, she’s foaming at the mouth
. It reminded me of that rabid dog in
To Kill a Mockingbird
.” She smiled to the ADA. “You ever read that book?”

“Yes, ma’am, in the ninth grade.” Mr. Dean was looking a little glassy-eyed. “Do you know why Mrs. Peterson was upset?”

Miss Mamie scooted to the edge of the chair. “Meredith accused Evie of having an affair with Trey. Told her she’d better stay away from her husband, if she knew what was good for her.”

Miss Mamie giggled.

“Why is that funny?” Mr. Dean asked.

“Because Evie Douglass is the office manager at Peterson Mills, and Trey is her boss.” Miss Mamie’s eyes shone. “They
work
together. Real close, if you know what I mean.”

“And then a few days after this disagreement, Mrs. Peterson was found brutally murdered in Evie Douglass’s office,” the prosecutor said. “That will be all, Miss Hall.”

Evie closed her eyes. He made it sound so sordid, so damning.

“Chin up, my dear,” Mr. Collier said in a low voice. “We’ve just begun. Circumstantial evidence. Not to worry.”

“Yes, but what about the knife?” she whispered. “That’s not circumstantial.”

Mr. Collier patted her on the hand. “Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it, shall we?” He rose and approached the stand. “Do you have any personal knowledge that Trey Peterson and Evie Douglass were having an affair?”

“Well, Rose Austin told Maddy Gordon that—”

“
Personal
knowledge, Mamie Louise.”

Miss Mamie sat back. “If you mean did I ever see them myself, well, no. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t so.” She folded her hands in her lap. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in eighty-two years, Amasa, it’s that people canoodle. Take Dusty Smitherman and Ronald Ledbetter. Dusty’s husband came home for lunch and caught them doing it under the front porch.”

Miss Mamie was excused and Sheriff Whitsun was called to the stand. His lean jaw was set, his eyes hard and unreadable. In a clipped, emotionless voice, he told the court about Evie’s call to 911, the scene he and his men found at the mill, and the bloody knife that he found in her car.

“Has the knife you found in the defendant’s car been positively identified as the murder weapon?” Mr. Dean asked.

“Not yet. We’re still waiting on the results from forensics. We sent the knife to Mobile for testing.”

“Thank you,” the ADA said, and sat down.

“Does the Alabama Department of Forensic Sciences still have the knife, Sheriff Whitsun?” Mr. Collier asked, getting to his feet once again.

“No, the knife was stolen out of the evidence locker at the lab.”

“So the knife is missing?”

“
Was
missing,” Sheriff Whitsun said. “We recovered the knife late yesterday inside a locker in the men’s room of the Hannah Country Club.”