Chapter Seventy-three

Parrott lay on the floor, overcome with dizziness and confusion. His breath was coming in slow, shallow puffs, hardly enough to sustain him. Thornton was babbling about how he’d come too far to lose his multi-million-dollar investment empire. Parrott only half-heard what Thornton was saying. In his semi-conscious state, Parrott gritted his teeth, struggling to hold onto muscle control.

Reaching for his pistol was hopeless. He was more disabled than if he’d been hog-tied. He concentrated on clenching his right hand. If only he could grab the ankle pistol and fire. Then he remembered the pepper spray in his left pocket. The canister was much lighter than a pistol, and small enough to be concealed within his large palm.

Guttural sounds came from the direction where Claire and Tammie sat, bound and gagged, but fully conscious of Thornton’s movements. Parrott was their only chance of surviving, and he didn’t have much time—or strength—left.

Thornton kept a running patter as he went to work. Parrott paid less attention to the gloating words. His left hand had worked its way to within a few inches of his left pocket, but the dizziness was increasing, and his eyes blurred so badly that he could barely see. Unless he received medical attention soon, the fentanyl would slow his respiration and heart to a stop, but he couldn’t give up. If he disabled Thornton before he sprayed Claire and Tammie with fentanyl or blew up the house, he might be able to save them.

A fleeting thought of Tonya and the house and the babies they would now never have passed through his mind, causing him to push harder. At last, his left hand closed itself over the pepper spray canister, and he drew it out of his pocket.

Humming sounds came from above Parrott, who could no longer see anything but dark shapes. Thornton hovered over Parrott’s body, singing, “We Are the Champions.” As he sang, droplets of spit landed onto Parrott’s face, and Parrott curled into a ball, then uncurled in a move he’d learned in training. With his left hand, he unleashed the pepper spray, right into Thornton’s eyes.

“You sonofabitch.” Thornton yelled at the top of his lungs. “My eyes are on fire.”

A surge of elation caused Parrott to smile, at least inside. Brock Thornton would be out of commission for an hour, hopefully long enough to prevent him from completing his plan to kill Claire and Tammie and destroy Sweetgrass. The chief would read Parrott’s text and know that Thornton was Ethan Pryor, a loser drug dealer from North Carolina, who had served time for blowing up a liquor store and killing the owner—a man named Steve Thornton.

Parrott’s breathing slowed to the point where only wisps of air entered and exited his lungs. He stopped listening to the thrashes and moans of Ethan Pryor. His last thought before he lost consciousness was of Tonya. She deserved to heal and be happy.

In the next minute, Officer Randy Barton burst through the door to Claire’s study, followed by Chief Schrik. Within seconds they assessed the situation—the women tied and gagged, Parrott lying motionless on the floor, and Ethan Pryor, blind and crying out for help.

Barton rushed at Pryor, throwing his weight on the blind man’s shoulders, pinning him to the ground, and cuffing his hands behind him.

Schrik called 911 and screamed into the phone to hurry. “Fentanyl overdose. My best officer’s down,” he said, not thinking about whether his words would offend Barton. Schrik cut the bonds and tore the gags from Claire and then Tammie, who both talked at once, explaining what had happened. He hustled them outside, instructing them to sit separately and not converse until further notice. Then he called Chesco to get evidence techs out to the scene.

Barton jerked the blind and handcuffed Pryor outside and into the squad car’s back seat and shackled his ankles together. Leaving him in the thick summer night, he returned to photograph and bag the evidence of Pryor’s foiled plans.

When the paramedics arrived, they took Parrott’s vitals immediately. “He’s got a pulse. Weak, but present. Let’s get some naloxone in him right away.” An intramuscular injection caused Parrott to stir, but the paramedic warned Schrik not to get his hopes up. “Gotta transport him to the hospital ASAP. Naloxone wears off, and he’s gonna need more treatment.” They started an IV in his hand and loaded him onto a stretcher.

“I’ll call Tonya to meet you at the hospital,” Schrik said. As the stretcher was rushed out the door, Claire called out from the porch, “Thank you for saving our lives, Detective Parrott. Now God bless you and save yours.”

Twenty-four hours later, Parrott awoke in his hospital room. The only lights came from the television and the wall sconce aimed at the ceiling. Tonya sat in the recliner next to his bed, holding his hand, and snoring softly. Delighted he could move, he lifted her hand and brushed it against his lips.

Tonya’s eyes flew open, and she jumped out of her chair. “Ollie? You’re awake.” Several hugs later, she called the nursing station. The night nurse came in with an armload of goodies, including a fresh pitcher of water, a handful of graham crackers, and a warm blanket.

“You had us plenty worried, Mr. Parrott,” she said, as she typed information into the computer. “Don’t be thinking you’re all well, though. You’re gonna need to stay right here in this bed for a few more days, while you get your strength back.”

After the nurse left, Tonya squeezed his hand. “You want company? I wouldn’t mind sharing that warm blanket with you.” She crawled onto the bed and lay on her side, propped on her elbow, careful of the various tubes.

“You want to talk?” she asked, after a while.

Parrott nodded. “Tell me what happened. Last thing I remember is spraying Ethan Pryor with capsaicin. How’d I get to the hospital?”

Tonya explained how Schrik and Barton had arrived at the scene and called 911. “You were pretty bad off.”

“How’d Schrik and Barton know to come to Sweetgrass?”

“You might not believe this, but Brock Thornton’s wife, Mavis, called them. She said you’d saved her life, and she wanted to save yours.”

Parrott had trouble processing how he’d saved Mavis’ life. He must have looked perplexed, because Tonya explained further. “Evidently, things had been rocky between Mr. and Mrs. Thornton, and Mavis had mentioned divorce. Brock flew into a fury and left the house for several hours. When he returned, he tried to make up. He’d brought her a gift from the bakery—a box of decorated cookies.”

Parrott chuckled. “So, when I told her about the poisoned cookies, she realized that her husband was a killer.”

“Yeah. She said she might have eaten a cookie if you hadn’t warned her off. When you flew out of the house after receiving a text, she called the police station and left a message for the chief.”

“What happened to Thornton? His real name is Pryor, you know.”

“He’s in jail. Chief Schrik talked to the DA. Case will go to the Grand Jury tomorrow, charging him with murder, arson, and a bunch of other things—they’ve thrown the book at him. He’s had quite the Ponzi scheme going for the past few years. Aren’t you glad we didn’t invest with him?”

“We never would have gotten that far, and I wouldn’t have let Ma and Herman, either. Once Pryor realized I was a cop, he pulled back. He didn’t want me anywhere near him or his operation.”

“He blew up Claire Whitman’s bank barn, didn’t he?”

“Yes. He’d killed the boyfriend of Claire’s personal assistant, Tammie. He burned the barn to cover Tripp Anderson’s death.”

Tonya patted Parrott’s forearm. “So why did he kill Anderson?”

“You know, you should be a detective. You ask all the right questions.” Parrott touched his wife’s cheek, so grateful to be alive. “Tripp and Ethan Pryor were fraternity brothers at Chapel Hill. They both tattooed their stomachs with the letters Sigma Alpha Epsilon. Later, Pryor changed his name, had plastic surgery, and reinvented himself as Brock Thornton. He came to Brandywine with a story that convinced Robert Pennington to sponsor him as a financial advisor.” Parrott pointed to the pitcher of water. “May I have a drink?”

Tonya climbed out of the bed and poured two cups of water, one for her husband and one for herself. “Here’s to us,” she said, touching one cup to the other.

Parrott took a long drink and continued to talk. “Anderson didn’t recognize Pryor at first. Years had passed since college, and Pryor’s disguise was successful. But at some point, Anderson must have seen the tattoo and put two and two together. He told Tammie he was coming back to town for a project. I think he threatened to expose Pryor, and the guy went ballistic. He had to kill Anderson, or he’d lose everything he’d worked so hard to build up.”

“He tried to kill Claire, too,” Tonya said. “Claire and Tammie were here this morning to check on you. Claire said she’d demanded the return of her money.”

Parrott nodded. “He couldn’t return her money. He’d already used it to pay dividends to other clients. His whole scheme had started to unravel, and he was desperate to control the damage. He’s the one who disabled her golf cart, which led to her sprained ankle.”

Tonya gazed at her husband. “Exactly. He confessed to all that while you’ve been in here sleeping. But how did you know?”

Parrott tapped his forehead and laughed. “I have my ways. I guess you didn’t know your husband was clairvoyant.”

Tonya leaned over and gave the clairvoyant a big kiss. “Well, in that case, Mr. Detective, tell me what I’m thinking right now.”

Parrott held a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them again, he said, “That’s easy. You’re thinking about how to tell me that we’re going to be the proud owners of a fabulous house in West Chester.”

A look of disbelief crossed Tonya’s face, and she burst into giggles. “Yes, Ollie. That’s exactly what I was thinking. And we’re going to fill that house with every happy moment that you and Horace and I can imagine. And while you’re recovering, Mr. Clairvoyant, you can help me figure out how to decorate the nursery.”