Scoop to Kill (11 page)

Finn narrowed his eyes and gazed across the bar at Jonas Landry with something akin to admiration. “Brilliant,” he said.

I elbowed him—gently—in the gut. “Despicable.”

“Despicably brilliant. Or maybe brilliantly despicable. Either way, this guy’s got it all figured out.”

Emily bobbed her head from side to side. “Mmmmm, not entirely. Like I said, the Board of Trustees of Dickerson is pretty conservative. A lot of good Southern Baptists. A good old-fashioned sex scandal might tarnish the golden boy over there enough that the Board would give him the boot.

“But,” she added, waving her glass in a general salute to the Bar None, “the Board of Trustees does not do honky-tonk.”

For a second, we couldn’t hear a thing as the crowd went wild. Bree had taken the stage and slipped the shrug from her shoulders to reveal her wondrous buxomness in her tangerine tube top. She knew just where to position herself, so the lights turned her hair to a fiery halo and cast her face in seductive shadow.

She stood very still, her head bowed, until the room grew quiet.

Into the near silence, the dramatic opening chord sounded followed by the trilling piano run. Bree raised her head, her gaze searching into the distance above the audience’s heads.

“First I was afraid. I was petrified,” she sang, her voice clear and vulnerable. She built the emotion of the song like a virtuoso, until the high hat disco beat kicked in and my cousin’s sexy hips began to sway back and forth in time.

The crowd went crazy, hooting and hollering as Bree belted out Gloria Gaynor’s defiant lyrics. The song crescendoed to its powerful conclusion, and Bree brought the house down.

As applause rocked the room, Emily hopped down from her stool and raised her arms. “Wooo!” she screamed, bouncing up and down like a groupie at a Bon Jovi concert.

She took her seat again, leaning forward to close the distance between us. “She’s amazing,” Emily said, yelling to be heard above the demands for an encore.

“Oh, yeah. She’s got a voice on her,” I replied.

To be honest, a lot of Bree’s appeal was pure showmanship. If you closed your eyes, you could hear when she went flat. But she could put on quite a show, no doubt about it.

“About Jonas,” I said, dragging the conversation back to more pressing matters. “If Bryan knew that the Board of Trustees wouldn’t approve of Landry’s shenanigans, do you think he might have blackmailed him?”

Emily’s smile faded, and I felt bad for bringing her back to earth. The whole point of the evening was to give her a break from her worries, and I kept reminding her all about them.

“I doubt it,” she said. “I mean, maybe. But if Bryan was blackmailing Jonas, it was probably for advancement in the graduate program. And he got what he wanted from Jonas.”

I looked at her sharply, and I saw the moment she realized what she’d said. Without meaning to, she’d intimated that Landry had voted to pass Bryan on his exam. Whatever the vote, it hadn’t been unanimous. And if Landry supported Bryan passing, that meant Emily’s insistence on failing the boy would look all the more suspicious.

“Let’s just drop it,” Emily said.

I nodded. After all, we were out to have fun.

But even Bree’s sex-on-a-stick rendition of Madonna’s “Material Girl” couldn’t banish my feeling that I’d learned something important at the Bar None.

T
he next morning, as I nursed a bit of a sore head from my evening at the Bar None, Cal McCormack called and asked me to meet him for lunch at Erma’s Fry by Night Diner. I had a horrible feeling he wanted to discuss Alice’s ill-fated espionage attempt. As much as I wanted to weasel out of it, the goody-two-shoes angel who’s always whispering in my ear made me go.

Erma’s is just a couple of doors down from the A-la-mode. It’s not a fancy place, just a standard-issue diner with Formica tables and wobbly wooden chairs, air thick with the scent and sounds of food frying on an industrial grill. Erma’s didn’t serve nouvelle anything, just heaping plates of hash browns, chicken-fried steak, and cream gravy. All the food tended to shades of beige, but it was delicious.

Dr Pepper bottles filled with plastic daisies nestled against the table caddies of off-brand artificial sweeteners and big bottles of hot sauce. The Dalliance old-timers—judges, plumbers, doctors, and cobblers—crowded the long counter that fronted the kitchen, bumping elbows as they sipped black coffee, traded gossip, and made the deals that kept the town running.

Cal and I raised some grizzled eyebrows when we took a table together near the back of the diner. He held my chair for me and handed me a vinyl-covered menu.

“How’s Sherbet?” he asked as he took his own seat.

I grinned. “He’s better. A dumb ass, but a healthy dumb ass.”

Cal’s mouth widened in a lazy smile. “He’s just a little fella,” he said. “He’ll make better choices as he gets older.”

“Really? Is that how it’s supposed to work?”

“For cats,” he said. He gave me a teasing wink. “For people, once a dumb ass, always a dumb ass.”

“Hmmmm. That doesn’t bode well for me.”

“Nah, Tally, you’re not a dumb ass. Just too big-hearted and gullible for your own good.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, Alice vouched for you. She said the whole stunt in Bryan’s office was her idea, and you didn’t know what she planned.”

I pulled a face. “What does that say about me, that I was duped by a teenager?”

He laughed. “It says you’re human. Teenagers are ornery little buggers.”

I accepted his olive branch with a smile.

“Oh, yeah?” I teased. “Have a lot of experience with ornery teenagers, do you?”

“Let’s see.” He held up his hand to tick off his points on his fingers. “First, I was one. Second, I’m a cop. Third, I’m an uncle. Bryan was a high achiever, but he got into his share of trouble.”

He looked out over my shoulder and cleared his throat. “He was a good kid.”

“I’m sorry, Cal.”

“It’s okay,” he said, waving off my concern. “I’ve just been thinking a lot about him lately. You know, I was still a kid when Bryan was born. Eleven, twelve, something like that. I was working on Eagle Scout when he became a Cub Scout. I took him camping a lot, worked on getting his badges. Dang near singed off all my arm hair trying to teach the kid to make a hobo dinner.”

I laughed along with him.

“I don’t know if he really enjoyed much of what we did, but he sure wanted to get those badges. The only time I was completely sure Bryan was having a good time on our camping trips was when we were making s’mores.”

“He liked sweets, huh?”

“Lord, yes. But plain old regular s’mores wouldn’t do. Bryan had to take everything to the next level. And so peanut butter s’mores were born.”

“Mmmm. I’m hooked. Tell me more.”

Cal took a sip of his water. “It’s just what it sounds like. He’d smear his graham crackers with peanut butter, then top it with the chocolate bar, and finally the toasted marshmallow.”

“That’s genius,” I said.

“His mom thought so. She tried to convince the scout leader to give Bryan an extra badge for innovation. Threw a hissy fit when the scout leader informed her that adding peanut butter to a well-known snack didn’t constitute innovation.”

“I’m with Marla on this one.”

“I figured you would be,” Cal said. He sighed. “It’s good to talk about him. Marla can’t go there yet. It’s too soon.”

“I’m glad you have good memories, Cal. And I’m glad you can share them with me.”

I was getting so accustomed to thinking of Bryan as an overly ambitious young man with questionable ethics. It was good to be reminded that even this unlikeable young man had a mama who loved him, a family who loved him. That once upon a time, Bryan Campbell had been a wide-eyed little boy with no greater ambition than to earn merit badges and eat gooey sweets around a campfire.

Before either of us could grow more sentimental, the waitress sashayed up. We placed our orders without even looking at our menus: chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and sweet tea for both of us. I’m sure the other food at Erma’s deserved a shot, but it was hard to pass up the opportunity for the tender breaded beef smothered in peppered cream gravy.

After our waitress left, Cal got down to business. “Tally, I need some help, and I’m hoping you’ll oblige.”

“Of course, Cal. Anything.”

He held up a cautionary hand. “Better wait till you have the facts before you wade in here. See, Marla got this idea that we should establish a scholarship in Bryan’s honor.”

“I think that’s a lovely idea.”

“It is,” Cal said, “but it’s going to take a lot of work. I already talked to George Gunderson and Jonas Landry at Dickerson. They were two of Bryan’s advisers. They suggested having an initial fund-raising event at the very end of May.”

“Why so soon?”

Cal fiddled with his silverware. “Marla’s idea is to have the scholarship awarded to someone like Bryan, a serious student and a serious baseball player. So Gunderson and Landry thought it would be good to coordinate the fund-raising around the end of the collegiate baseball season. Marla’s husband, Steve, thinks he can get ahold of a couple of tickets to the College World Series at the end of June, and they can be the main focus of a silent auction.”

Another advantage to ordering the chicken-fried steak at Erma’s is that they’re constantly frying it up during the noon rush, so you never have to wait long. Our waitress swung by with two mounded platters of carbs and grease, plopped a basket of fresh rolls in the center of the table, and topped off our sweet teas.

“It sounds like a great plan,” I said. “Where do I come in?”

Cal stuck his fork in his mashed potatoes, like he was going to take a bite, but just mushed the gravy around a bit.

“Marla . . . well, Marla’s not doing too great. She can’t seem to stop crying, so her doctor gave her some sort of tranquilizer. That helps with the crying, but it makes it hard for her to focus. And Steve’s not much better. His sisters all live in Shreveport, so it’s up to me to plan this shindig. And I’m in over my head.”

“You?” I teased.

He uttered a short, mirthless laugh. “Imagine that. I can shoot straight, rope a calf, and even take down a biker hopped up on crank. But I cannot plan a party.” He cocked an eyebrow. “But you can.”

I paused with a forkful of spuds halfway to my mouth. “Me? Why me?”

“I know it’s a big favor, Tally. But I don’t know who else to ask. And I have to do this for my sister. God knows I can’t give her any answers about what happened to her child.”

“Do the police have any leads yet?”

He narrowed his eyes. “You asking as a friend? Or as a wannabe detective?”

That hurt. I got it, but it hurt. “As a friend. I have no intention of getting involved in the investigation.”

“Hmmmm.” Cal hummed thoughtfully while he buttered a roll. “For someone who’s not involved, you’re sure spending a lot of time with our prime suspect.”

I set down my fork and folded my arms on the table in front of my plate. “Okay. First off, y’all keep telling the newspaper Emily Clowper isn’t a suspect. Second, the only way you’d know how much time I was spending with Emily Clowper is if you’re spying on me, and I don’t appreciate that. And last, I’m not really spending time with her at all. It’s Finn and Alice—who both happen to like the woman, thank you very much—and they’re just spending time with her in my presence.”

Cal raised his glass in an appreciative salute. “Fair enough. She’s not technically a suspect, but she’s the closest thing we’ve got. And I’m not spying on you. I’m spying on her. You just happen to be in the vicinity.”

He took a sip of his tea. “As for Alice and Finn liking her, well, Alice is a kid. And Finn is a man. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.”

We stared at one another, caught in a stalemate, until finally Cal reached a hand across the table.

“Truce?” he said.

I took his hand and gave it a shake. “Truce. But, seriously, if you know something about Emily that I don’t know, I wish you’d tell me. I’m not wild about Alice hanging around with her as it is.”

Cal tucked in to his meat. “I don’t know anything but what my gut is telling me. Which is that something there just isn’t right. But I was kidding about spying on her. I just heard through the grapevine that she was spending time at the A-la-mode. As much as it pains me, I’m leaving the actual investigation to my men. I’m not gonna have some lawyer claim I harassed someone and end up letting Bryan’s killer go free.”

Poor Cal. Forced onto the sidelines for the most important case of his life.

“Have your men gotten any leads? As a friend,” I said, “I want to know.”

Cal shook his head. “Nothing. No one saw anything. Or if they did, they’re not saying. The murder weapon was wiped clean; there was blood on it, but no prints. And all the blood seems to be Bryan’s.”

His jaw clenched. I couldn’t imagine having to talk about someone I’d loved in such clinical terms, but I supposed that being a cop, you learned to compartmentalize early on. Either that, or you burned out fast.

“What about blood outside the main office? The killer must have had blood on him, right?”

“Sure,” he said. “And they found traces of blood in the little bathroom down the hall from the office, one of those one-person unisex things. But, again, no prints. Just evidence that someone locked him- or herself in that bathroom and washed Bryan’s blood away.”

“Oh, Cal.” I reached around the side of the table to take his hand. He wrapped his fingers around mine, gave them a brief squeeze, and then pulled back into himself.

“What about DNA or hairs or fibers?” I asked.

“Tally, you’ve been watching too much TV. Other than the blood, the crime-scene guys didn’t find any evidence that was obviously related to the crime. There was trace all over the crime scene and the bathroom, but they’re public buildings. We probably have hair from every member of the English department faculty and half the students.”