T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril (25 page)

“I’m trying to call the police, but I can’t see a darned thing! My eyes are dilated.” She shoved the phone at me. “Here. Dial 911.”

“May I ask why you need the police?”

She pointed at Fran, stretched out in the rear of the hearse. “I don’t think that woman is breathing! And it looks like she’s hurt. Like maybe somebody has hit her in the mouth!”

Keep in mind that the back of my hearse is similar to a limo. Leather seats. Sound system. Compartments for ice and drinks—and weapons. Normally, people can’t see through the windows, but Fran had rolled down all the tinted glass before she fell asleep. Head back and huge mouth hanging open, she did look sort of, well, dead. I handed the woman’s cell phone back to her.

“Fran, wake up.” I reached through the window and shook her. “I found Spud. We’re ready to go.”

Fran stirred and her eyes popped open.

The woman gasped. “Wh-why is she in a hearse?”

“Why not, for crying out loud,” Spud said. After a beat, he thought to show off his newly lasered teeth and aimed them at the Good Samaritan.

Fran sat up and stuck her puffy lips out the window. “Give me a kiss, baby!”

The woman hustled away, much faster than a senior citizen with dilated eyes should be walking through a busy parking lot.

“Did Dr. Haines give you any drugs?” I asked Fran once we were on the road, cruising back to the Block. She and my father had chosen to ride in the back. They wanted to be chauffeured.

“No, nothing,” Fran said. “I tried my best to get him to pull out that prescription pad, but he said that ibuprofen would work fine.”

I eyed her in my rearview. “You were supposed to be getting a
consultation.”

“We consulted,” Fran said. “Then I got my wrinkles Botoxed.”
She fluffed her hair. “And he filled in my marionette lines and plumped up my lips. He’s such a nice man. And I look fabulous!”

“Me too,” Spud said. And smiled. “We both look fabulous, for crying out loud.”

Jersey Barnes and crew, supersleuths in action. We hadn’t gleaned much intel about the Divine Image Group. But Fran and Spud had shaved years off their appearances. And I’d managed to grab the Divine Group’s appointment book. It wasn’t a completely wasted trip.

Morgan was waiting
when we pulled open the Block’s oversize warehouse-style garage doors, and he came in with the sunlight. I was helping to fill ice bins, open the registers, and prep the bar—and hadn’t been expecting him.

“Morgan,” I said. “Good to see that you’re getting out and about in Wilmington! You here for an early lunch?”

He positioned himself on a bar stool. “Just coffee, please. I don’t usually eat anything until midday.”

I poured his coffee, and he explained that he was trying to cut back on the amount of time he spent at work. I could “listen” between the lines. Translation: He knew eavesdropping to be wrong in so many different ways, but the craving to do so remained strong. Cutting back on his work hours was Morgan’s way of staying away from the temptation as much as possible.

“So anyway,” he went on, “I got a visitor’s guide and I’ve been checking out all the attractions around here. I feel like a tourist.”

“Smart move on your part,” I said. “Get out there. Meet people. Have fun.”

Morgan sipped from his coffee cup, frowned, smelled the brew, frowned again.

I sat beside him. “Something wrong?”

He asked what type of coffee we were using. I told him.

He took another sip. “The coffee has a bitter, almost metallic aftertaste. When’s the last time you cleaned your brewer?”

“Huh?” I didn’t know you were supposed to clean a coffee machine, other than the pot. Ox normally made sure that type of thing got done.

Morgan laughed. “It’s very simple. After you close tonight, run a cycle of half white vinegar and half water through the brewer. Then flush it out with two cycles of plain water. Need to do that once a month to keep the flavor of the coffee from getting spoiled by mineral deposits.”

I gave him a light punch on the shoulder. “You’re a natural at this restaurant stuff!”

“I’m told I have
a perceptive
palate.” He grinned. “The chef asks me to taste his new creations.”

“That’s excellent, Morgan. When the DEA finishes their investigation and all that mess is behind you, you might love your new life as restaurateur.”

“You could be right.” He forced down some coffee. “Speaking of the dope police, any new developments?”

I gave Morgan a vague update. “You need to be careful until this is all over. Stay aware of what’s going on around you. I don’t think you’re in any danger, but you still need to be on alert. Call me the instant you sense anything fishy.”

“Ready to implement the ‘free lunch’ plan?” he asked.

I nodded. It was a good idea. It could work. Determined to help, Morgan had come up with the idea to open Argo’s for an
invitation-only lunch. All of his regulars were invited. It would be Morgan’s way of saying thanks for the patronage and continued support after his father’s passing. He’d purposely scheduled it when the doctors could attend, and we’d be recording them to have something for leverage if needed.

“When’s the big day?” I asked.

Two days from now.”

Perfect. That gave me time to have a chat with the Divine Image Group in advance of their free lunch. Further stir the pot. That’s me: Stir, stir, stir, and be ready to duck.

Morgan finished the coffee and declined a refill. “You really should clean your brewer.”

I agreed I would. He left to catch a matinee movie and, on his way out, passed Dirk coming in. I cleared Morgan’s coffee cup, and Dirk slid onto the just vacated bar stool.

“Any good lunch specials today?” he asked. I had no idea. Fortunately, Ruby did.

“Trout sandwich or fried trout bites. Comes with sweet-potato fries and cranberry slaw,” she said.

Dirk said he’d take a sandwich. I asked Ruby to make it two. We moved to a table to eat, and Dirk filled me in on everything the department had on Garland’s alleged accidental death. Which wasn’t much. No police report. And an investigation hadn’t been implemented, since foul play was not an issue. Nothing on record at all, in fact, except a 911 call made from Argo’s main phone line. Dirk pulled out a pocket-size digital recorder and pressed a button.

[Excited male voice.]
Caller: A man just fell off a ladder and I think he’s really hurt.

Operator: What is your location, sir?

Caller: Argo’s restaurant on Bradley Creek. I don’t know the exact address.

Operator: We have the address, sir. Is the victim still breathing?

Caller: Yes, I think so. He was up there replacing floodlights, you know, the bulbs, I guess. And the ladder slipped and I saw him fall.

Operator: An ambulance is on the way….

And it went on from there.

“Seems to me like the caller was intent on explaining what happened, even though the operator didn’t ask,” I said.

Dirk agreed. “Other than the 911, there’s an M.E. report, signed death certificate, and newspaper obit.”

I’d already seen all that, but the 911 call confirmed that Spud’s instincts had been on target. Not to mention an urn full of sand inside the prayer bench.

Dirk asked about Lindsey and Ox, and I inquired about his family. He was going on duty soon, he said, and had to scoot. I took care of his tab. I’d just finished helping Ruby clear the table when Brad swaggered in.

Hands on her wide hips, Ruby followed his progress like a buyer at a fashion show. “Why, I do declare!” she said, pouring on the southern accent. “You’ve got a regular string of hunky male callers today.”

I made a face at her. “Good thing I’m not on the clock.”

“Hah!” she blurted, going toward the kitchen. “You couldn’t find the employee time clock if it was framed in flashing neon.”

“A string of hunky men, huh?” One corner of Brad’s mouth went up. “Does that mean she thinks I’m hot?”

“What do you want, Brad?”

He wanted to sit on the outside patio, he said, to take in the ideal weather. Mostly sunny and a steady breeze moving off the water. What he really came for, he added, was the information I’d promised him on CC’s Hair Boutique. Two days ago.

“I’ve been busy.” We propped open a big canvas umbrella and secured the latch on its wood post before stretching out in chairs.

Ruby followed us out. “Are you eating again?”

I made a face at her. “Just a beer, please.”

She looked at Brad. “Hungry?”

“I’m always hungry, darlin’.”

Ruby’s posture warmed up a good ten degrees when Brad turned his hazel greens on her. “How about you bring me whatever your lunch special is. And I’ll take a beer, too.”

“You got it.” There was a little extra “shay” in her sashay as she headed inside. He could charm the bark off a tree. I did a mental eye roll.

A smattering of birds chirped along the paver bricks, scavenging for dropped crumbs. The patio held a decent crowd, and the lunchgoers piled in. To be helpful, I fetched our beers, and when I returned, Brad’s head rested back, his face soaking up bright rays that fell beyond the umbrella’s circle of shade. If he didn’t irritate me so much, I might have found the pose alluring. Before I had too much more time to think about it, Ruby delivered Brad’s food.

While he ate, I gave him the lowdown on what I’d learned at CC’s Hair Boutique: that a woman named Theresa had told the housewife Karen about the network. That’s how Karen came to be on the list I’d found at Argo’s—because she picked up her drugs there. Theresa left the salon one day with her boyfriend to eat lunch and they never saw her again, I explained to Brad.

“Anything on the boyfriend?” he asked.

I told him about Earless and the first time I’d encountered the tattooed thug at Argo’s. “A clock face with no hands on it,” I said. “A prison tattoo, I think. Anyway, he seemed to be searching for something, and he commented on how Rosemary could sell the rich bitch crowd. He knew about the drug dealing. Then he tried to lock us in the cooler and he ran off. That’s pretty much it.”

Brad’s plate wasn’t empty, but he’d stopped eating. He glared at
me through narrowed eyes. “You didn’t think to tell me about Earless before now?”

“Not much to tell,” I said. “Besides, Morgan filed a police report. The gun I took away from Earless went through ballistics and came up empty. Cheap revolver, no serial number, probably stolen.”

Brad picked up a sweet-potato fry, pointed it at me, started to say something, tossed the fry back on the plate. “Anything else you’ve been withholding from me?”

“Not a thing,” I lied.

A woman at a nearby table got Ruby’s attention and asked for a glass of Merlot to go with her hamburger.

“Sorry, ma’am, we’re out of Merlot. The only red I have right now is house Zinfandel. I can whip you up a red wine cooler,” Ruby offered.

The woman’s forehead crinkled up. “You only have one single type of red wine available?”

I saw a notepad lying on the chair beside the customer’s purse, pen tucked into the spiral binding. She wore a casual outfit and slip-on leather flats. No wedding ring. Her companion looked like a college coed and might have been her daughter.

“Normally, we have a right many wines to choose from,” Ruby said, eyeing me, “but
somebody
made a mistake and didn’t get the wine order in on time.”

“No big deal,” the younger girl said. “Mom just likes a glass of wine when she’s work—I mean, uh, well, you know. Never mind.”

The woman had to be a restaurant reviewer, probably one accustomed to more upscale places. Wilmington is loaded with great restaurants, foodies, and, of course, critics. Maybe she had let her daughter pick their lunch spot.

“You advertise”—she consulted the menu—“five different red wines and six whites. Not an extensive selection by any means, but
still, I’d think you’d at least have something besides
Zinfandel
.” She said the word as though the wine were tainted with dog poop.

Ruby looked at me to see which way we wanted to go. Sometimes snooty customers just aren’t worth the trouble, and I don’t mind a bit if a server recommends they eat elsewhere. On the other hand, this woman reeked of column inches. I can ignore a stench and brownnose when necessary.

I got up and introduced myself. “I have a bottle of Merlot upstairs. Very nice wine from a private collection. I’d be delighted to open it for you, and your glass of wine will be on the house.”

Ruby bit her tongue and fake-smiled at the woman. “I’ll have that right out to you, ma’am.”

I returned to our table and told Brad I’d be right back.

“You’re a wine aficionado?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t even like wine. Morgan insisted I take a few bottles from the wine cellar when I searched Garland’s place. I figured Spud and Fran would drink them.”

“Want me to go up and get the Merlot for you?”

“No.”

“At least let me go with you.”

“You’re dying to see my place, aren’t you.”

“Yes.”

We cut through the Block and climbed the stairs, Cracker on our heels. I beeped us through the security system. “Don’t even think about planting any bugs in here,” I told him. “I swear, you go near a telephone or a lamp, you get a roundhouse kick to the back of the head. In fact, don’t touch anything. Don’t even
breathe
on anything.”

“No problem,” Brad said. “I’d love to take a tour, though.”

“Fine. Spin in a three sixty. Entryway, kitchen, living room, bedroom, bath. Through those French doors is another kitchen, which leads to my father’s apartment. Satisfied?”

“Sure,” he said. “Great tour. Real homey feel to it.”

I pointed at him. “Stay.”

Both Brad and Cracker stood still, side by side, and watched me rummage in the liquor cabinet. I found the bottle of Merlot. I dug through a drawer and retrieved a corkscrew.

“Want me to open that for you?”

“Okay.”

“Am I allowed to move now?”