Death Crashes the Party (10 page)

Chapter 12

After drowsily reading through entry after entry, I was suddenly wide awake, jolted by this new revelation: Ray Franklin was Duane and Darrell's father. I kept trying to wrap my mind around the revelation. D. had to be Ray Franklin. He had spent so much time with the boys. And he had that picture of them and that postcard they'd sent when they were little. Not to mention the diary.

But their dad was supposed to have been killed in Iraq. If he'd been alive all that time, why had he waited so long to contact his kids?

As huge as this discovery was, I knew I needed to read the rest of the diary before morning—and I hoped something turned up that pointed to the murderer.

Sounded like the Farrells were really in over their heads.

This was less than a month before the murders. It sounded like Darrell was wading into dangerous waters. My heart was racing as I read the final pages. I found myself hoping Duane and Darrell would escape unharmed somehow, even though I already knew this story had a very unhappy ending.

Then I reread the ominous final entry.

I slipped quietly into the garage and stashed the diary under the driver's seat in my SUV before heading back upstairs to bed. Larry Joe didn't so much as twitch as I slid beneath the covers. I couldn't sleep with words from the diary running over and over in my head.

At just after 5:30 a.m., I slipped on some jeans, a T-shirt, and a ball cap and tiptoed downstairs, leaving Larry Joe snoring away. I was dying to tell Di what I had learned, and wanted to catch her before she left for work. As I turned onto Maple Street, I was startled to get a glimpse of myself in the rear-view mirror. I had left the house without putting on make-up or so much as dragging a brush across my bed head.

The light was on in Di's kitchen when I arrived. I tapped lightly on the front door.

“Come on in,” Di called out.

When I walked into the kitchen, she was at the counter, with her back to me.

“I can't believe you'd just holler, ‘Come on in,' without bothering to see who's at the door.”

“I knew it was you,” she said, digging a spoon into a bowl of Cheerios. “Who else would be knocking on my door at this hour of the morning?” Di sat down at the table and invited me to pour myself some coffee. “You look like you could use a cup. I'm guessing you found something interesting in the diary.”

“Interesting? Try absolutely shocking.”

Di looked irritated as I punctuated my statement with a long pause.

“Wait for it,” I said. “Ray Franklin isn't just a father figure to Darrell and Duane. He is their long-lost father—who apparently didn't die in the Iraq War, after all.”

Di, who's rarely at a loss for words, sat in a stunned silence. I filled her in on the other stuff I had learned from the diary, like Darrell and Rudy getting into a shoving match and Darrell getting suspicious about something and secretly following Bobo to find out what was going on.

“He's their dad,” Di mumbled, obviously still mulling over the big news. “I guess it adds up. I mean, we did find the postcard from the boys and the old photo of them in his camper. But why would he show up after all these years? Do you think he actually killed his own sons?”

I admitted I didn't know what to think.

“Maybe he came back here to hide out,” Di said. “And whatever danger he was running from ended up being dangerous for his kids.”

We batted around countless scenarios to explain the “death” and delayed reappearance of Papa Farrell, aka Ray Franklin. We hypothesized that he could be a deserter on the run from the military. He could have been part of a secret military operation that went horribly wrong and left him for dead behind enemy lines. He could have gone undercover to infiltrate a terrorist group.

“Liv, does anything about Ray Franklin strike you as noble or heroic?”

“No. He mostly strikes me as sleazy and useless.”

“Exactly. I don't think he was ever part of some secret military action or undercover operation. I think he's a deserter. Maybe his unit thought he was dead, and he let them keep on thinking that—and he's been on the run ever since.”

“It's true that if he's trying to evade U.S. authorities, he wouldn't be able to get a real job. It would be easy to become involved with illegal activities, like drugs,” I said.

“Well, I better get moving and get to
my
real job,” Di said.

Di went to the back of the trailer and returned a few minutes later in her uniform. She grabbed her purse, paused at the door, and looked back me.

“You know, the sun's up now,” she said. “You're welcome to help yourself to any of the makeup and hair products on my bathroom counter.”

“I really look that bad, huh?”

“Unless you think advertising what the morning after a wild party looks like will help drum up business, you should probably pull yourself together.”

Chapter 13

After Di left, I thought about going home to make myself more presentable for public view. But Larry Joe was probably still at the house. I had left him a note saying I had some early morning errands to run, and I didn't want to go home and have to explain what I'd been up to at this early hour. I poured another cup of coffee and decided to do the best I could with whatever paints and potions I could find in Di's bathroom.

I pulled up in front of the office at a little after seven and was surprised to see through the window that Winette was already at her desk.

“Mornin', sunshine,” Winette said as I walked through her front door.

“You're up and at 'em kinda early, aren't you?”

“I have a lot I want to get done today, so I decided to get an early start. Besides, I'm just a morning person,” she said with too much perkiness for my taste. “But what are you doing in so early? We both know you are not a morning person. You're not meeting clients looking like that, are you?”

I felt momentarily insulted, then realized that despite my lame attempts at primping, I was still wearing a T-shirt and old jeans.

“No. No clients. Is Mr. Sweet in yet?”

“Lord, no. He's still drinking coffee at the diner with the other old men.”

I helped myself to a cup of the coffee Winette had brewed and sat down at the desk next to hers. She was putting together information packets, collating photocopies printed on different colored papers into neat color-coded stacks and humming as she stapled the packets together. She looked over at me, waiting for me to say what was on my mind.

“Winette, could I ask your advice about something, confidentially?”

“You know I don't tell tales out of school. But don't ask me what I think, unless you want to hear the truth.”

“That's exactly what I want to hear.”

I explained, without giving too many details, how Di and I had found Duane Farrell's diary and how it had information that could have a bearing on the murder investigation.

“Problem is, we ‘found' it in somebody's home while they were out, and we didn't exactly have permission to be there. If I give it to the sheriff, I'm afraid he won't be able to use it, because of how it was obtained. And if I put it back, I don't know if the sheriff will be able to get a search warrant based on what I tell him.”

Winette, who had continued stapling while I talked, put down the stapler and swiveled in her desk chair to face me. “At the very first opportunity, you and Di need to put that diary back where you ‘found' it,” she said, punctuating the word
found
with air quotes. “Then phone in an anonymous tip to the sheriff that you've seen Duane's diary at this person's house. And go ahead and add that you think this person may be selling drugs, just for good measure. The sheriff's a smart man. He'll figure out how to get a warrant.”

“Thanks, Winette. You're absolutely right,” I said, breathing a shallow sigh of relief.

“Now, can I ask
you
a question?”

“Shoot.”

“I know you're a crazy woman, willing to live in a construction zone when there's perfectly good houses to be had in town. But Diane Souther strikes me as a sensible person. Why does she still live over in that trailer park? Not that there's anything wrong with living in a trailer, but . . .” She paused for a moment. “She's bound to make decent money working for the post office. Now, I'm not hounding you for a new client. I'm just genuinely curious.”

“Well, you know how ugly a divorce can be, having been through one yourself.”

“Lord, don't I,” she said, shaking her head.

Winette had taken her ten-year-old son and had walked out on an abusive husband with just the clothes on their backs. He had tried to block the divorce, had fought for custody and, as far as I knew, had never paid a cent of child support. Yet she had managed to raise a well-adjusted, bright young man, who was now a sophomore in college, and she had worked two jobs while she studied for her real estate exams.

Di had divorced Jimmy Souther when he went to prison. And she had got saddled with his IRS problems and his sky-high credit card debt. I don't know all the details, but I do know the IRS garnished her paycheck at one point.

“I've tried to talk her into buying a house whenever you and Mr. Sweet have mentioned some really good deals on the market, like that foreclosure last year that she could have had for a song. But she says the trailer is paid for, and she's saving up for a comfortable retirement.”

“A home that's paid for is a beautiful thing,” Winette said. “No doubt about that.”

Winette took a phone call, so before getting down to work, I decided to stretch my legs. I stepped outside and ambled down the block. I thought I'd buy a snack to tide me over until lunch.

Suzanne Bagley owns Farmers' Market, on the northeast corner of First Avenue and Main Street, just a few doors down. She runs the store, while her husband, Stan, works on their farm. Suzanne says she and Stan plan to keep the store after he retires from farming. The market features local produce, including tomatoes and peppers from the Bagleys' farm; fruit and preserves from a local orchard; locally milled sorghum; and a few organic products, such as peanut butter, shipped in from elsewhere.

I'm a regular customer because I like to support local business—and because the locally grown produce is much tastier than the stuff shipped in to the supermarket.

“Mornin', Liv,” the proprietress said, looking up from the counter as I walked through the front door.

A good bit older than me but younger than my mom, Suzanne is a tall woman with a mop of salt-and-pepper curls and amazingly good posture.

“Hey, Suzanne. What looks especially pretty today?”

“Well, I've got some beautiful tomatoes—we're at the peak of tomato season.”

“I'll take a few of those tomatoes and a pint of blackberries for later, and add this apple to the bill,” I said, laying a Red Delicious on the counter.

Suzanne bagged and totaled my purchase.

“How's your mama?” Suzanne inquired politely.

“Sassy as ever.”

“Good for her,” Suzanne said, smiling. “I guess this whole business with the Farrell boys has been pretty hard on Larry Joe's dad.”

“He does look tired,” I said.

“And I'm sure you're tired of folks asking you about finding the bodies. My nephew actually worked with the Farrells.”

“Oh. I didn't know you had any family working at McKay's.”

“I think he's been working there for a year, or close to it. He's twenty-five years old and still living in his mom's basement, but my sister's just thankful he's finally straightened up and gotten a job.”

“Is he a driver?”

“No, he's a mechanic. You'd probably remember him if you've seen him. He's got hair dyed jet black, except for a couple of splotches that are bleached blond. It's too bad, because he wouldn't be a bad-looking kid otherwise. Of course, this is his aunt talking,” she said, flashing a broad smile. “His name is Rudy.”

She handed me change from a twenty-dollar bill.

“Thanks, Suzanne.”

“Thank you. And you be careful out there. It's pretty scary knowing there's still a killer on the loose.”

Stepping from the air-conditioned store into the stifling heat nearly took my breath away. I polished the just purchased apple on my sleeve before taking a bite. So now I knew it was Suzanne's nephew Rudy Johnson who'd nearly come to blows with Darrell Farrell shortly before he died. I made a mental note to try to find out more about him. I strolled back down the block, feeling a bit lazy. I had slacked off with work a bit too much recently, so I dutifully went back to the office. I knew I really needed to wrap up a few things before I left to meet Mama for lunch and shopping.

I sat down at my desk and noticed the light on the answering machine was flashing. I hoped it was a call from a potential client, since business had been a bit scarce. No such luck. It was a message from Mrs. Erdman. She said she couldn't remember if we had discussed details about the tablecloths for her anniversary party. She said emphatically that it was “absolutely essential” that the tablecloths for the buffet table were crisply starched and ironed, like those at fancy restaurants. She would be “absolutely mortified” if the tablecloths were limp. I sighed and added these minutiae to the checklist for the Erdmans' party.

Mama was waiting for me, sitting in a rocking chair on her front porch, when I pulled into the driveway and parked next to her Cadillac. I stepped out of my car and she came down the front steps toward me.

“Let's take my car, hon. Would you mind driving?” she asked, opening the front passenger-side door without waiting for an answer.

Virginia Walford is a big woman, with a personality and an attitude to match. Her plus-size clothes are always freshly pressed, if a bit on the flamboyant side. And her chemically enhanced black hair is always perfectly styled—thanks to twice-weekly trips to the beauty shop. Maybe it's her striking green eyes, but something about my mama makes people take notice. Men of a certain age can't seem to take their eyes off her—not that she'd ever let anyone get away with ignoring her.

I knew without asking where we'd eat lunch in Hartville, but Mama, nonetheless, felt it was necessary to state the obvious.

“I thought we could have lunch at the Victorian Tea Room. How does that sound, darlin'?” she said as I backed out of the driveway.

I thought,
Predictable
. I said, “Wonderful.”

The waitress at the tea room seated us next to a window. I ordered a soup and half-sandwich combo. Mama ordered a large salad and a plate of tea sandwiches I'm pretty sure were meant to be shared. I asked if she planned to shop for anything in particular at the mall, and she told me one of the stores was giving away a free compact mirror with the purchase of her favorite perfume, which always envelops her like a miasma.

After Mama filled me in on all the gossip she had gathered from Sylvia after church, I decided she might be a good source from which to find out more about Suzanne's nephew, Rudy. If he'd ever been in any kind of trouble, she'd most likely have heard about it.

“Mama, do you know Suzanne Bagley's nephew, Rudy Johnson? He's her sister's boy. I think he's in his midtwenties.”

“Evelyn Taylor's son? I think so. Why do you ask?”

“Suzanne mentioned he works as a mechanic at McKay's. I didn't know that. Wouldn't have thought he was old enough. I don't know if I've even seen him since he was just a little kid.”

“He was a cute little boy. Sucked his thumb till he started kindergarten. Last time I saw him, he'd done something crazy with his hair. His mother, of course, thinks he's wonderful. I think he does help out some, fixing things around the house and keeping her car running. But then, Lord knows, he should, since he's a grown man living rent free in his mother's basement, for heaven's sake. I think he went away to college for a year or so but got involved with drugs and ended up flunking out. After he came home, he spent a couple of months in a hospital. His mother told everyone he had pneumonia, but Sylvia said he was really holed up at some kind of rehab center.

“I'm glad he has a good job now. I hope he stays out of trouble. His mother has enough to bear, what with Rudy's father running off with that floozy and now having to put up with Rudy's stepfather,” Mama said, pursing her lips.

“What about her current husband? Does he run around with other women, too?”

“I hardly think so, given his, shall we say, ‘shortcomings. ' But he does drink and gamble away money at the casinos.”

“That's too bad. By shortcomings, do you mean he's not able to perform as a husband?”

“Well,” Mama said, “probably not very well. His ex-wife says he's hung like a Vienna sausage.”

I couldn't believe I was having this conversation with my mother.

Mama cleared her throat and moved on to less prurient interests. My mind was stuck on Rudy's past drug problems. I wondered if he had any current drug issues and if that could have prompted his fight with Darrell on the videotape.

And as hard as I tried not to, I kept getting this visual image of Rudy's stepfather's “shortcomings” as compared to canned meat.

After lunch we went to the mall. Mama dragged me from store to store, trying on nearly every pair of dangly earrings in stock and looking for a skirt in just the right shade of blue. She didn't have any luck with the skirt chase, but I bought a cream-colored blouse that would work perfectly with a navy blue or black suit. My mom bought her signature perfume to get the compact mirror they were offering as a free gift with a purchase. I had to admit it was kind of cute. And, of course, even on the other side of the county, we kept running into people Mama knew, and had to stop and chat with each and every one of them for what seemed like hours.

I finally got a chance to sit down when Mama suggested we stop at the food court for some ice cream. She has remarkable stamina for a woman of her age and girth.

“So how are Wayne and Betty doing? I didn't see them at church yesterday,” Mama said.

“I think the whole business of finding drugs on one of the trucks and two employees getting murdered is weighing heavy on Daddy Wayne. Even though he obviously has nothing to do with any of it.”

“Well, of course not,” Mama said. “The whole thing is completely ridiculous. Dragging him into the police station in handcuffs, for heaven's sake. Maybe I'll bake a chocolate pie and take it by.”