Southern Poison (16 page)

Elbow deep into purified gel from the leafy shiff bush, Peggy Lee’s thoughts strayed to her wedding. Of course there wasn’t yet a ring or a date, but she knew it was coming. If she had any friends, she would have jumped at the chance to be in one of their weddings as a bridesmaid, just to get some ideas. She would have been happy
just to attend someone else’s wedding. It would be sort of like relishing in the foreplay, creating savory anticipation for the real deal.

She found the small vial she’d dropped into the vat, retrieved it, and washed her hands and arms. Automatically, she dipped her fingers into a pile of waxy substance, residual from manufacturing the original purified gel. Made up of pureed fibers, seeds, and the guts of the plant, Peggy Lee had discovered that it made a wonderful moisturizer. It even had a pleasant smell. Of course, she used very little of the real wild leafy shiff bush, since she’d found a way to manufacture a chemically identical, synthetic version. But, perhaps she’d talk Chuck into marketing the plant by-product as a high-end cosmetic or at the least, a hand lotion.

Her daydreams strayed back to Llewellyn’s Bridal Shoppe, and the mother and daughter she’d seen shopping there. Peggy Lee wasn’t a nosy person by nature, she thought, but she remembered everything she’d heard that day, right down to the street location and date of the wedding. Even if they were checking a guest list and she couldn’t get in, she could certainly watch the outdoor ceremony from the beach. After all, anybody could go to Bald Head Island as long as they had a boat, or didn’t mind taking the ferry. It’s not like only the rich people were allowed.

Although, it would be nice to join the ranks of the wealthy, Peggy Lee thought, smiling at her stainless-steel vats and tables of shiny equipment. Soon, she could have anything, including an oceanfront house on an island and her very own yacht. Very soon. The chemist decided to lock up the lab and head home early so she could pick out something to wear to the wedding. She knew the bride’s name was Janie, and wondered if Janie would have used her as a bridesmaid, had they been old friends. Probably not. But Peggy Lee would enjoy the wedding, just the same, because it would be her turn next.

John awakened at
precisely midnight, drank a protein shake, and headed for his root cellar to collect scuba-diving gear and tools. He was pleased to find the marina quiet. The few live-aboards appeared to be asleep and their boats were dark, shades pulled. He smeared on camouflage grease streaks and motored quietly out of the slip.

The familiar waterways whispered encouragement as John navigated his twin-engine offshore fishing boat beneath a sliver of moonlight, without flipping on his navigation lights. Outfitted in a solid black wet suit, he felt powerful, invisible, unstoppable. John arrived at the allocated rendezvous spot three minutes before two o’clock in the morning. Equipped with his own diving gear, Fred waited in a jon boat. Another of John’s hired men, Fred had been so startled by the photograph of his dead team member, he knew better than to make John angry by being late. The boss was getting out of control. But he paid well, and Fred needed the money. They tied off to a cypress tree trunk in the small alcove, and—carrying an
assortment of supplies including a battery-powered scuba propulsion unit—waded into the Cape Fear River.

John, gripping the handhold on one side of the encased propeller, and Fred, doing likewise on the other, slid rapidly through the water as one and—despite all the extra weight they carried—arrived at their first destination in less than seventeen minutes. John surfaced briefly to ensure he found the correct green buoy that marked the navigable portion of the channel, then followed the chain straight down, thirty-five feet, to where it was weighted at the bottom. The buoys were usually handled by buoy tenders—boats equipped with a crane—but John planned to relocate them the easy way. He watched while Fred cut the chain loose from its anchored block of concrete, and floated the buoy closer to shore. In this stretch of shipping channel, water depth ranged between thirty and forty feet. Even though boats would now be directed into water a bit more shallow—twenty-six or twenty-seven feet perhaps—it was a slight enough change so that the container-ship captain would simply mutter to himself, rather than complain to the Army Corps of Engineers.

Satisfied with the buoy’s new location, John gave the thumbs-up sign. Fred attached the chain to a tie-down screw—the kind used to secure mobile homes—and using a pole, worked the giant screw into the bottom of the channel. Winds were predicted to be light and there weren’t any offshore storms to create rough currents, so their jury-rig would hold the hot tub-sized buoy in place long enough to serve its purpose. Like the soft wire antenna he’d run to the exterior of the C-4 container, directing the cargo ship closer to the shores of Bald Head Island was an insurance policy.

Working as a team, the men moved two additional channel markers. It was a strenuous task and their lungs absorbed much more oxygen than if they’d been pleasure diving. After securing the third marker, Fred pointed to his watch, indicating that his tank had run
low. John pointed at the last tie-down screw, wanting Fred to make sure it was secure. When Fred kicked his way back to the bottom, his headlamp caught a sweeping flash of fishing net. He spun to avoid it, but John—seizing upon the unexpected opportunity—pulled the netting around his partner and yanked the regulator from his mouth. Fred’s eyes went wide beneath his mask when John jerked the man’s head backward and used an S hook to attach his long braided pony tail to a wad of the netting. A scream came out with a muted bellow of bubbles.

His light shining on the other man’s face, John waited for Fred to die. Head arched back and lashing about, Fred struggled to find his regulator, but it had become tangled in the netting, too. He felt for the diving knife attached to his leg, only to realize that, in his haste to be on time, he’d strapped on an empty sheath. During the last seconds of his life, it dawned on the diver that John meant to kill him one way or the other. Just like the man he’d strangled and photographed, as a message to the others. But Fred didn’t understand why. He was a simple body for hire. He didn’t know or care what John was up to. He just wanted his money, Fred thought, his body suddenly light and prickly as puzzlement overcame panic in his oxygen-starved brain. Reflexively, he sucked in a breath of cloudy brackish water, shut his eyes tight, and tried to think of something pleasant as he died. Nothing came to mind.

“I can’t do
this. What was I thinking?” Janie paced in the spare bedroom that had been converted to a dressing room, unconcerned about the loose snap on her gown. “I don’t even really know Daryl. I mean, who is he?”

“For God’s sake, Janie,” her mother said, attempting to corral the girl so a waiting seamstress could mend the snap. “Of course you know Daryl. You love him, remember?”

The girl shook her head. “I’m not sure I’m cut out to do the wife thing.”

“You are and you will. Now, stop being a brat and let this woman fix your gown! A crowd is already here and the ceremony starts in half an hour.”

Janie stood in place to let the seamstress put a needle and thread to the tiny snap at the back of her waist. “But it doesn’t feel right, Mom. It’s like all of a sudden, I feel sick or something.”

Her mother removed a gold pill case and fished around until she found a small pink round one. “Take this. It will calm your nerves.
You’re experiencing the prewedding jitters, or whatever they’re called. Everybody does. It’s normal.” The woman didn’t know Daryl all that well, either. But she knew that he came from an upper-class family and the man owned his own business. Her daughter could have done much worse. And with help from her husband, her son-in-law would grow into a hugely successful land developer. Janie would live in a beautiful home and have everything the girl deserved.

Janie swallowed the pill, sucked in a deep breath, and straightened her spine. “You’re probably right. I’m okay. I’m fine, really. Just a little nervous, I guess.”

A bridesmaid in a sleeveless coral-toned satin gown poked her head in the door. “Everything okay in here? You need anything, Janie?”

“We’re all set,” the mother answered for her daughter. “Is the rest of the wedding party dressed and ready?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the maid of honor said and ducked out of the room. Janie’s mom didn’t look happy, and she wasn’t going to stick around to find out why. They just needed to get Janie through the ceremony and on to the fun part of this day—the reception and drinking and dancing to Feather Heavy.

Outside, the wedding planner surveyed the grounds, relieved to see that everything was moving along as scheduled. Guests mingled, security was in place, the decorations were perfect, a pianist happily pounded out background music, the band’s crew had finished setting up, and he couldn’t have ordered better weather if he’d written the forecast himself.

From
a distance, Joe watched the activity through binoculars. The old Bald Head Island lighthouse was in relatively good condition, probably since there were periodic tours through the landmark. He’d broken in and climbed to the very top, the area where the original
lantern used to burn with oil that was later changed to an electric light, and took a few minutes to catch his breath. He wasn’t in as good shape as he used to be, but that didn’t matter. His orders today were simple. Watch for a specific ship—he’d written the name down—coming through the channel, and push a button at the exact moment it cruised by the target house. Joe didn’t understand why he had to wait for a specific container ship, but then he didn’t really care. John had been quite specific on when to detonate the bomb he’d planted at the wedding, and if the man said he had to wait for a ship, then he’d wait. He just wanted his money. Hot, Joe drank a bottle of water and settled in to get comfortable. As he monitored the river, he couldn’t help wonder who the bride and groom were. And wonder if anyone would die as a result of his actions: raising an antenna and pushing a button. He didn’t let his conscience bother him, though. Money was money, and if he hadn’t taken the job, another man would have.

Chila
Turner, lead singer of Feather Heavy, despised weddings. She hated all the billowing white fabric, the ugly bridesmaid dresses, and all the stupid rituals, such as throwing the bridal bouquet. Besides that, exchanging vows was simply stupid. Nobody really meant it when they agreed to stay together until death. Death was much too far away.

She hated weddings so much that she told her booking agent she’d never perform at one, even if there would be VIPs present. But the woman was relentless and convinced her to take the job. The
People
magazine exposure would be great, she said, and the money was absurdly good for such an easy gig. What cinched the deal, though, was when Chila learned that she could parachute in as soon as the happy couple said, “I do.” Special permits were required from local authorities, but that was her agent’s problem. Her job
was to fling herself out of an airplane and wow some fans. The sound man had fitted her with a special high-frequency, long-range wireless microphone, so she could actually talk to the crowd, after her chute deployed and she floated down. She might even sing a few lines, she thought. She’d made countless jumps and could land on a dime. Or, in this case, fifty thousand dollars. It would be one of her more memorable entrances to a performance. It was going to be a blast.

I Lounged on Incognito
, unable to fully enjoy the delicious feeling of seclusion. A sense that something bad was about to happen—and happen soon—nagged at me, and on top of that, I couldn’t shake the feeling that somebody was watching me. I’d moved my boat several times and even had Soup sweep the decks and cabin for a GPS tracking device. He assured me that
Incognito
was clean. I chalked it up to being paranoid—a bad thing—rather than merely cautious—a good thing. I called the Block wanting some reassurance from Ox. Or maybe I just wanted to hear his voice. Probably both.

“He hasn’t been in for a few days, Jersey,” Ruby practically yelled into the phone. “Ever since you took off on vacation. But everything’s fine around here. Except your daddy keeps trying to make off with the fixtures.”

“What?”

“I caught him and Bobby dragging out a booth seat. Said it was for his new sculpture.”

“Good grief.”

“Don’t worry. We put the booth seat back and we’re keeping an eye on him. We’ve tightened all the screws and bolts on everything.”

“How’s Lindsey doing?”

“Happy as a clam. Making friends and jumping around like rock star over that Derma-Zing thing. Her commercial is already airing on TV. Nationwide, they say.”

I nibbled a slice of apple and listened to melodic clanging sounds from a nearby sailboat. “You think Ox might be at home?”

“Not my turn to keep up with that man,” Ruby said. “Listen, we’re busy so I’ve got to skedaddle.”

Great
, I thought, sulking. I’m trying to stay alive and my best friend is spending quality time with his ex wife. They were probably doing the tourist thing … sightseeing and shopping. And if Louise had her way, looking at real estate. No longer hungry, I tossed the remaining chunks of apple overboard and watched them bob on the water’s surface. A fish came to investigate and picked at the fruit until it sank.

I pulled out a notepad and scribbled lines of scattered thoughts about MOTSU, Mama Jean, and John. There had to be a simple connection. Something obvious I’d overlooked. I went back over the copy of Mama Jean’s autopsy report that Ashton had sent me, for the third time. Nothing. Earlier, I’d asked Soup to keep tabs on Lady Lizzy’s personal calendar and was just about to call him for an update when the satellite phone beeped.

“Hello?” I said, unsure if the beeps meant an incoming call.

“I’ve got something for you.”

“Soup? I didn’t realize people could call me on this thing. How’d you get the phone number? Oh, wait. You set it up,” I said. “Anyway, what
is
my phone number?”