Chapter Fifty-one

Earlier that Thursday, Parrott was taken out of the office, investigating tips about drug houses and meth labs in Brandywine Valley. The article in the Unionville Times had struck fear in the minds of residents, and all it took was a single rolling stone to create an avalanche. Thank you, Dave Simmons.

The chief had been apologetic. He hated to stop the momentum on the Whitman case, but, putting it in terms that Parrott would understand, “Think of this as taking a sack and living to see another play. All we have is you and Officer Barton, and I can’t put all this on him. We don’t follow up, and some other crisis happens, we’re in big trouble.” As he handed over the printout of the tips, he’d winked.

Parrott wanted to argue. His discovery of the videos of the person putting flyers on Wyatt’s car had given him the footing he needed in the investigation, and he hated to take a single minute away. But there was no point in arguing. As public servants, the police department had to accede to public pressure sometimes. A fact, as his grandmother would say, “As sure as a dog has fleas and a cat has lives.”

The seclusion of homes and the distance between residences made it hard for people to snoop on their neighbors, or even, in Claire Whitman’s case, to know what was happening in an outbuilding on her own property. On the other hand, equestrians rode on trails through neighboring property, and artists often set up easels outdoors, so nature offered opportunities to break through the illusion of privacy.

As Parrott scanned over the list of suspicious activity, he shook his head. Suspected marijuana plants, fumes, regular late-night car traffic in an otherwise-sleepy neighborhood, various and sundry rumors—all difficult to investigate in the country setting. But when he saw the list of names, a surge of excitement passed through him. One of the suspected sites was an outbuilding on the property of M. Robert Pennington. So that’s why Schrik had winked when giving Parrott the assignment. Now he’d have another reason to visit with Mr. Pennington and have a look around his property, assuming Pennington cooperated. Maybe this unwanted assignment would work out fine, after all.

Parrott and Officer Barton met in Parrott’s office to brainstorm how they would handle this assignment. Parrott brought the coffee. Barton brought breakfast burritos. The two sat at the desk, eating and dishing over their mutual frustration.

“If we were on a police force in a city, we’d never be pulled from an important case to chase bunny rabbits. That’s what this is,” Barton said. “I guess the jewelry theft at the Henrys will have to take a back seat for a couple days.”

“Hmmph, city cops think we have it so easy—all we have to do is collect a paycheck. They don’t realize how everything, big or little, falls on the two of us.” Parrott thumped the sheet of information handed to him earlier by Schrik. “Even this stuff. If we were in a city, we could conduct surveillance from the street, interview neighbors and landlords, without being concerned about trespassing on private property. Here, everything depends on a cooperative estate owner or a warrant.”

“Not to mention the rich folks who pay taxes to support our salaries. They don’t take kindly to our poking around in their business.”

“That’s true anywhere,” Parrott said. He didn’t like painting all rich people with the same brush, especially now that he was one of them. “Might as well get started,” he said between bites. “We’re going to have to follow up on all of these, even if in a cursory way.”

“Hahhh, how’re we supposed to approach somebody based on fumes? Unless there’s an explosion like yours at Sweetgrass, ain’t nobody gonna smell fumes from one fifty-acre estate to the next.”

Parrott grabbed a legal pad and pen from his desk and made notes. There were seven allegations, but only five addresses. Parrott and Barton ran through each of them, deciding how they would sniff around enough to determine whether a crime was being committed. They would spend the rest of the day in the field, separately, knocking on doors, talking to colleagues in nearby departments, as well as some drug offenders-turned-informants who had helped them before.

The tip about Pennington’s property intrigued Parrott the most. He told Barton he would check that one out, himself. Because Pennington’s acreage bordered on Claire’s, and because his interview with Pennington about Brock Thornton had left him suspicious, he couldn’t wait to use these drug tips to dive deeper into the television magnate’s business.

At five o’clock, Barton and Parrott met up at the station to de-brief. Parrott had slung his jacket over his desk chair and opened his collar. Barton resembled a wilted tomato plant, needing water.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Parrott said. “I’ll get us some cold drinks from the break room.” He returned with two ice-cold cans of lemonade from the pop machine, and he broke out two power bars from his stash.

Barton popped the tab and guzzled the lemonade. “Beastly day out there today. Glad I don’t have to pound the pavement like this every day.”

“You find anything?” Parrott bit off a giant piece of the power bar and chewed. “Nobody I talked to knew anything.”

“Same here. I wish people wouldn’t get so skittish every time there’s an op-ed in the paper. Nobody I talked to has heard anything about a meth lab or drug dealing. Most I got outta any of ’em was that Old Man Hatteras is a frequent user of CBD products.”

“Registered user?” Parrott asked.

“Yeah. Uses it for pain.”

“Using and growing are two different things, especially in a conservative state like Pennsylvania.”

“I doubt he’s growing. He’s about eighty years old, and not well. I can’t see him messing with marijuana plants. Meth either.”

Parrott finished his power bar and drained the can of lemonade. “Most of the people on this list are in their eighties. Claire and Pennington are. But younger people work for them, and they could be the ones planting dope. I think we need to keep our feelers active for a few more days. If we don’t learn anything, we can tell the chief we came up with scratch.”

“What about this guy, Pennington? You want help with that?”

“Nah, I’ve got an idea about checking his estate out after dark, see if there’s any traffic out there. I might make a visit to the Whitman house, too. Let’s touch base tomorrow and see where we’re at.”

As Barton was leaving, Parrott’s cell phone rang. Herman’s name flashed on the caller ID, and an inexplicable clammy sensation shot through Parrott’s arteries. It had been a long, frustrating day, and whatever Herman wanted, Parrott wasn’t interested. He walked to the window and stared out at the vacant playground before answering.

“Hey, Ollie. Can we meet for a quick bite of dinner? I want to talk about this deal with Brock Thornton.”

“What deal? I’m not ready to decide about investing right now. Besides, I’m going to be working late tonight. I can’t afford the time to go out for dinner.”

“I can bring something over to the station. An Italian hoagie from Wawa? I don’t want to pressure you, but Thornton has called me fifty times today. He says this is the perfect time to invest in the market, before it makes a correction. He doesn’t want us to miss out. I’ve talked to your mother, and she’s ready to go.”

All the goodwill he’d felt toward Herman at Portabella’s was turning sour now. “Why don’t you go on ahead without us? Tonya wants a house, and I’m too busy right now. If we miss out on the good timing, so be it. At least we won’t be standing in your way.”

“No, no, no. Thornton was clear that this is an all or nothing deal. He won’t take our money unless we have the whole group. Ten million, minimum.”

Parrott sank into his desk chair and leaned back. “Sorry to be the party pooper, but Tonya and I are not going to be pressured into something we’re not sure of. Thanks for offering to bring food, but I can’t stop to eat or to visit. I’ve got to go now.”

As soon as Parrott hung up, his stomach demanded food, and the thought of a hoagie from Wawa made his mouth water. He called Tonya to catch up on her day of work at Elle’s and tell her he wouldn’t be home for dinner. “I’ll grab a sandwich and get some work done. Call you on my way home.” As an afterthought, he told her about the conversation with Herman. “You don’t want me to call him back and say we’ve changed our minds, do you?”

“You know how I feel, Ollie. I’m even more distrustful than you are.”

“Okay. Hope we don’t regret this, but I don’t think we will. See you in a few hours.”

Parrott disconnected the call and straightened up his desk. He had no intention of coming back to the office to do paperwork. He headed out to purchase a hoagie and then he was going to make an unexpected visit to Claire Whitman at Sweetgrass.

The sky had dropped its veil over the landscape, but the streetlights had not yet come on. Parrott bought his sandwich and a cold root beer. He drove into Unionville and parked his car on the side of the road. A doe and two fawns crossed the road ahead of him, and he wondered where the stag was.

The hoagie was warm and spicy, chock-full of cheese, ham, salami, sweet peppers, and swimming in oil, vinegar, and oregano. Not as good as one of Tonya’s home-cooked meals, but it was delicious.

When he finished eating, he wiped his hands and face and pointed his car toward Sweetgrass. He had a lot of new questions for Tammie and Claire.