The devil laughed, p.19
The Devil Laughed, page 19
“That would make her suspicious. I told her exactly where I was going. She hates the Rhett Butler League. We can get up a meeting over Rhett Butler’s People at a moment’s notice.”
“Rhett Butler’s People?”
“It’s a book by Donald McCaig. It’s fiction, of course, but cleverly gives us insights into Butler’s forbearers. Some characterizations don’t jibe with Mitchell’s, but it’s become part of the canon and hotly debated among the acolytes.”
Lake had gotten fidgety. “Okay, so we’ve got Evangeline safely at home, no suspicions about your impromptu meeting.”
“Fire away,” Baron said, rising. “But first let’s refill. I’ve got a feeling this is thirsty business.”
After the refills, Lake said, “You said you and Lorraine share responsibility for the winery’s operations.”
“That is true.”
Lake explained that I’d interviewed Browne’s lawyer, David Henderson, and that Henderson claimed to be the board’s managing director and that Domingo was the operations manager. Further, that Lorraine Bonnet was a board member in name only. To really rile him, Lake said that Henderson had never mention Baron’s name.
Baron puffed up like a red-faced cobra. “Preposterous. Lorraine is an officer of the board. Finances, that sort of thing. When she’s away I see to things.”
“Does she do the billing and write the checks?”
“No we have a service that does that. He’s a contract computer software guy. Of all the damned nonsense. Henderson wanted Emile in there so he would have control. Emile wasn’t going to come over here to run a vineyard. Domingo is tight with Henderson. You can bet they’re licking their damn chops waiting for Candice to be declared dead. They’ll throw Lorraine in the street, too.
Lake said, “You think they might kill her, too?”
His head jerked. “What? Why I never thought about it.” He shuddered, rather dramatically. “Preposterous.”
He was all about preposterous.
Lake pressed on, “Lorraine had problems with the Internal Revenue Service. What was that all about?”
If he weren’t half soused he might have realized what was happening. He said, “Lorraine doesn’t talk about it. Goes back to when Candice was married to Sean Broussard. Lorraine did a favor for Candice.”
“By cooking books?”
“It was over a corporation that went bust. Don’t ask me more. Lorraine’s debt is paid.”
I asked, “Why did Broussard leave Candice a dollar in his will?”
He still hadn’t caught on that he was being cop-teamed. “They would have been divorced if he hadn’t …” He sputtered out, “Sean Broussard was a prig. Candice isn’t.”
“I see you use the present. You believe she’s alive?”
“Absolutely.”
“It’s interesting about Broussard’s murder,” I said.
Cutting off my interest in Broussard’s murder, Baron rose to fetch another Scotch. I shook my head. Lake went for a beer. Back in his seat, Baron said, “The slickest of the bunch is Laurant.” He certainly wanted to segue from Sean Broussard’s demise.
“He was one of Candice’s lovers, wasn’t he?”
“Common knowledge.”
“What about Domingo?”
“Johnny knew. Lorraine knew. Hell everybody knew.”
“Did Candice have an affair with Johnny while she was married to Sean?”
“What difference could it make now?”
“Broussard was gunned down in a funky bank robbery.”
“You’re totally off the mark if you think Candice had anything to do with Sean’s death. She was inconsolable when Sean was killed.” He tried to rise, but the Scotch had a grip on him.
“Sorry,” Lake said, his face a study in regret. “Questions from cops can get ugly. We came here to find out what was behind the scuttling of a sailboat, one dead man and three missing people. Now we have another dead man that might relate to the sailboat case.”
Baron had his handkerchief out, wiping his forehead. “She’s my sister,” he breathed out. “I believe she’s alive somewhere with that scoundrel.”
“Voluntarily?”
He snapped out the words. “Candice has the blue blood of Stede Bonnet running in her veins. She wouldn’t run out on anything.”
The same Stede Bonnet who was hanged.
I asked, “While we’re on the subject of blue bloods, what do you know about Addie Sweppington.”
He shook his head. “We Bonnets are transplants from Charleston. I can tell you with all sincerity that I wish I was back in our town.”
Lake said, “Would it surprise you to know that Della Browne was likely murdered?”
Baron waved his glass. “There’s always talk. I don’t get involved.” He swigged half the liquid and wiped his mouth.
“You know what I think,” Lake said. Baron drew in his shoulders for the onslaught. “I think Johnny killed Sean and Della.”
Frog-eyed now, he grunted. I could tell this wasn’t a new concept. “Well, he’s dead, we know that for a fact.”
Lake asked, “Was Laurant married when he met Johnny?”
“Let me think,” Baron said, rubbing his eyes. “ I bee-lieve Janet was with Laurant when they came looking to buy a vineyard. They wanted Johnny’s advice.”
“What if …? Let’s say Laurant gave Johnny an alibi for the time Della was chased by a road-rage idiot.”
He sat up and struck his knee with a fist. “By golly, Laurant did. He said he was with Johnny at the vineyard when it happened”
“That would give Johnny a reason to give Laurant a piece of his vineyard.”
Lake paused and I asked, “Who was Della Browne’s lover?”
He raised his chin. “She had two.”
“One was Henderson. Who was the other?”
“Avlon.”
“You’re kidding.
Baron hiccupped, then spread his lips in a knowing grin. “Some have it that Avlon was the man in the red truck.”
“Then who was Avlon’s alibi?” I asked, knowing damned well who.
“Addie Sweppington,” Baron answered. “Before becoming sheriff … was a lawyer.”
“Why didn’t they marry?”
“He’s … not old money, hic.”
Aside from reiterations, no more was learned so we wrapped it up with a few questions about Rhett Butler to get Baron back in character.
Lake went into the bar and got Baron hooked up with a member of his league who promised to see him home safely. His name was George.
*****
We had dinner at a little place on the beach. I’ve never eaten better grilled swordfish and rice with rosemary and red curry. Lake, the complete beef man, gave in and ate grouper and fries. We walked back to the inn carrying a bottle of Blue Sapphire, weaving between late night families on vacation and lovers leaning against each other. “I’m living with dead people or soon to be dead people,” I said. “I feel like a coffin case.”
Lake looked at the waxing gibbous moon shining nearly as bright as a full. “Don’t go preternatural on me, darling.”
“I’m going to bite someone pretty soon.”
“You can start with me, but leave my arteries alone.”
In the kitchenette, Lake poured two gins and dropped a lime curl into mine, two olives into his. We toasted, drank off half the glass and walked to the French doors. A widow’s walk went around the inn. I followed him outside where he anchored himself against a post, and I leaned into him and unbuttoned his shirt. The hair on Lake’s chest is dark and sparse, enough to be sexy but not animal. I nuzzled my mouth into his neck.
“Ummm,” he said, reaching his hand behind my head, pushing it more firmly into his neck. His soft full lips moved across my temple in little kisses until they reached my ear. It was my turn to say “Ummm.”
“Better go inside,” he whispered.
“Ummm.”
We didn’t take our time as we did when I went into therapy. Tonight was one that when need rises, need takes hold and says, foreplay be damned. I come first.
Feeling like I’d run the hundred yard dash in record time, I lay with my leg across his body and marveled at the uncountable times we’ve made love and how deliciously unique each was. It should be ever thus. “You’ve raised me from the dead,” I said.
“It’s the least I could do,” he said, his voice dog-tired.
Want to do it again?” I asking, swirling a finger in his hair.
“Give it a try,” he moaned.
“You owe me.”
“I always will.”
Closing his eyes and wriggling into slumber position, he was soon breathing deep and steady. I slid from beneath the sheet and walked to the window. The moon hung overhead, its light shimmering on the black sea. No, I told myself, you cannot dig into the graves this night. You will not think about this day because this night is for recuperation, to rest and ready yourself for battle tomorrow.
I returned to Lake’s side and was asleep as soon as my head landed on the pillow—only to be immediately awakened. Lake leaned and whispered into my ear. “Wake up sleepy head, we’ve got to go.”
Dawn was just thinking about rising so I could barely see his face. “What? Where?”
“Atlanta.”
“Later,” I said, moving to turn over. “You go on.”
“Portia called.”
My head came around. My body rose but I had no recollection of making it do so. “What’s wrong?”
“Diane Parker is missing.”
21
It was three o’clock in the afternoon on another scorcher of a Georgia summer day when Lake pulled the squad car onto the gravel lot of Trader Joe’s. The car next to ours belonged to Portia. She got out. The sheriff’s car wasn’t here. Sonny Kitchens had invited Lake into the investigation in the expressed hope that the Atlanta Police Department’s presence would keep the GBI presence less invasive. How naïve.
Portia came hurrying up. ‘Bout time,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “Moriah, would you please call that pushy horrid child and give her your cell number?”
“What does she want now?”
“Where are you with her case?”
“I’ll call.”
Lake spoke up. “Any news on Diane?”
“None. Brunty’s inside. He was the last to see Diane …”
I thought Portia was going to say alive. Instead she compressed her lips so as not to go ballistic, I think.
Scully Brunty sat in a booth, chin nearly touching his chest. He didn’t look up when Lake opened the door. There was no one else in the diner and Portia said that the entire county combed the highways, hills and rills for the girl. They had dogs, she said, but not Betsy.
“Betsy’s a cadaver,” I said. “God forbid that we need her.”
Sonny Kitchens walked in the door. “Hey folks, sorry to keep you.”
Brunty lifted his head. “Sonny, this ain’t necessary.”
“Diane missing makes it necessary, Scull.”
I believe they were talking about us being here. We pulled up cane-backed chairs to surround the booth and sat. Lake said, “Let’s start at the beginning. Yesterday when she got here. When and how?”
Scully pointed at Sonny. “Him. He dropped her off, like usual.”
“What time?” Lake asked.
“Noon.” Scully looked at Portia. The oblique light on his glasses made it hard to read his eyes, but his body language said irritated. “Can’t work but from noon to five. I got to get help in the mornings and evenings.”
Portia said, “You’re lucky I let her work that much.”
“She’s not overworked here.”
“I’m looking out for her welfare, Mr. Brunty. Someone has to.
“We do fine here.” He didn’t seem to care he was on thin ice.
Sonny intervened. “Scull has kept to the rules, Judge. To the letter.”
Lake projected a disapproving throat noise. “Except he let her walk out yesterday on her own.”
Scully said, “It was her time to leave. She wanted to walk and catch up to Sonny.”
Sonny’s hardened shoulders pulled at his shirt. “I told Scully sometimes I can’t be here on time, and he said he’d let her stay without working her.”
Portia said, “Accusations over.”
Lake asked Scully. “Did you see which way she walked?”
Scully stared directly at Lake, and I caught the light blue of his magnified irises. He said that Diane headed toward town and that it was also the route to her home. “I’m not her keeper. Someone else is, from Atlanta, taking her away from the place where she earns her keep given her mama was trash.”
“No need to name-call,” Sonny said.
I asked Scully, “How did Diane seem?”
He stared at me as if he didn’t like me much; understandable since I’d sicced Portia onto him.
Portia said, “In case you don’t’ remember, Miss Dru works for the state courts.”
Scully studied me several seconds longer, giving me a chill. “Seems ever one’s an investigator. Special ones for special people.”
I said, “Children are special people.”
Scully said, “The girl could marry so she’s no child.”
“What exactly are you saying?” Portia’s nose twitched like she smelled something foul.
“She’s got her woman’s days.”
I could see thunderheads gathering. “How do you know that?”
“I got eyes. I had girl kin.”
“You’d better be careful …”
Lake interrupted before the storm. “Did she have these woman’s days yesterday?”
“Not that I know of,” Scully said, looking down at his twiddling thumbs.
“What was her mood?” I asked.
He stopped rolling his thumbs. “Twitchy like.”
I remembered Diane. Twitchy-like described her the day Lake and I ate here.
Lake asked, “Who were your customers yesterday afternoon while she was here?”
Scully rubbed the light stubble on his chin and explained that he didn’t have many customers at lunch. Sonny was there, he said, since he took such an interest in Diane, which made Sonny look like he wanted to curse Scully to hell and back. A man and woman came in – strangers that Scully didn’t know. Also there were two biker regulars from Gainesville; Orell, his cousin, got a sandwich; and another regular he called Bernie.
“Bernie who?” I asked.
“Janeway, the park ranger.”
“Did the men flirt with Diane?” I asked.
Sonny slammed his hand on the back of the booth. “Miss Dru, I don’t appreciate …”
Portia interrupted, “Shut up.”
Sonny fired back, “I filed to be her guardian, for the love of Christ!”
Silence invaded the place like an army of denunciation.
Portia said. “Miss Dru did not besmirch you. Go on, Mr. Scully.”
Scully shook his head. “Boys always cut a light tone with a girl.”
“Janeway, too?”
“He was serious like.” His mouth twitched. “When he left, little Diane rushed off to the girls.”
Sonny glared at Scully. “Why am I just hearing this?”
“Didn’t know it meant anything.”
“You saying she was upset?” Lake asked.
“Didn’t ask her.”
“What about Janeway?”
“Always the same. Uppity.”
I turned to Sonny, “Where’s Janeway now?”
“With the searchers.”
That was it. Scully swore he knew nothing else and lowered his chin to watch his nervous thumbs roll over one another.
Lake, Portia and I were off to Landing Creek Park but first we stopped next door. Orell was closing Trader Joe’s to drive a busload of searchers somewhere. He said he hadn’t seen “hide-nor-hair” of Diane after he left the diner yesterday. We got on our way, and I considered that searching this county would be a daunting undertaking. Three-quarters of it was national forest—dense old Southern forest with steep rises and deep ravines. A favorite place, I learned when I was with APD, for suicides to find a shallow cave in the limestone outcroppings or low-branching trees to shoot or gas themselves, not to be found for months or years until some hapless hunter wandered upon the scene.
Lake drove slowly along capricious Route 128. I couldn’t see the searchers, but we spied three television trucks from Atlanta at a wide spot where, years ago, a wooden orchard pavilion had been left to rot. It served today as the search leaders’ bivouac.
Lake spoke to Sonny on the radio and told us that Sonny contacted the Hall County sheriff to find the bikers who were Diane’s last customers.
“It was Janeway that upset her,” I said.
“Sonny over-reacted to the suggestion of molestation,” Lake said.
“Every man does these days,” Portia said.
At the park Lake flashed the pass Janeway had given him although the lights flashing from the grill would have done the trick. We passed parties of searchers and Lake spoke an old refrain: “We need to locate Diane’s father, or relations.”
Portia said, “No father listed on the birth certificate. Linette was a runaway from Tennessee; that’s what we know so far. Been here since she was seventeen.”
“There’s DNA,” I said, unwisely, because …
Portia said, “You going to test every man in Sawchicsee and surrounding counties, as well as every Tom, Dick and truck driver passing through?”
“How about possibles, starting with the sheriff.”
“I asked him outright if he was her father, given his interest in becoming her guardian. He volunteered to take a blood test. We’ve been busy since you and Lake went cavorting in wine country.” She managed a dark grin.
“And witnessing an especially delicious murder,” I said acidly.
“You’ll mend,” Portia said. “You have God on your side.” That impressed me all to hell. Porsh and I attended parochial school together, but neither of us came out particularly religious.
I wondered if Diane was staying with Sonny, but Portia looked at me as if I’d lost my mind and said she was staying with Connie Scoggins, now being vetted by CPS. When I suggested that Connie could be a suspect if her husband was murdered, I felt the lash of heat from her eyes. “Connie’s a good ol’ girl. Why the warnings?”
