Chapter 11
Even though it was an early Sunday morning, Hayley knew a news story of this magnitude would require the Times’ staff to immediately report to work. When she reached the office, word of a charred body found inside the burned-out tour bus of Wade Springer in Albert Meadow had hit the town like a tsunami. Within an hour, all the TV reporters from the network affiliates in Bangor were in their cars, racing over the Trenton bridge onto Mount Desert Island to ask questions and get to the bottom of just whose body was inside the bus.
Rumors flew fast and furious all morning.
It was Wade!
No, wait, it was his publicist, Billy Ray Cyrus.
No, wait, it was the famous Billy Ray Cyrus, who came to make a surprise appearance at Wade’s charity concert.
No, wait, it was Trace Adkins!
No, Jimmy Buffett!
No, Johnny Cash! No, he’s already dead!
The names flying about just got more and more ludicrous.
Hayley received a call from Liddy, who was driving by the Harborside Hotel on West Street on her way to an open house and swore she saw Wade Springer alive and well being escorted out of the hotel toward a waiting limo. But she wasn’t absolutely one hundred percent positive it was him.
Hayley held her breath.
Please don’t let Wade be the body on the bus.
Please.
By noon, the body had been transported to the county coroner’s lab, and was finally identified from dental records that had been e-mailed from Nashville.
It was Mickey Pritchett.
Hayley felt a sudden jolt of elation knowing the body wasn’t Wade.
Then she felt a twinge of guilt.
She despised Mickey. But nobody deserved to die like that.
Wade issued a statement just a few minutes later expressing his deepest condolescences to Mickey’s family, not mentioning that Mickey and his mother were estranged. He also announced that the charity concerts would be postponed for a few days but would still go on because Wade had made a promise to the college and he intended to keep it.
Hayley couldn’t imagine what had happened to Mickey. Wade had fired him. She had seen Mickey still hanging around the hotel eating the fried chicken he snatched from her when she left just a short while later.
Did he steal the bus?
If so, why did he drive to Albert Meadow?
And how did it catch fire?
Was Mickey a smoker?
Had he been drinking too much and then passed out with a lit cigarette in his hand?
She was dying of curiosity.
She picked up the phone and called Randy.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Randy, it’s me. I was just wondering . . .”
“Sergio won’t tell me anything.”
“Damn. Well, I guess he’s busy interviewing people on the tour.”
“I’m sure you’re going to hear from him before I do. He’ll probably want to bring you in for questioning.”
“Me? Why?”
“Hayley, I heard you were one of the last people to see Mickey Pritchett alive. Last night at the hotel. When you took your fried chicken over to Wade.”
“Oh God, you’re right.”
Here we go again.
This wasn’t the first time Hayley found herself smack dab in the middle of a police investigation.
“I just wish we knew more about what happened,” Hayley said. “There are just so many unanswered questions.”
“Everything will come out eventually,” Randy said. “It always does. But if you want a heads-up, you know who you can call.”
Hayley knew exactly who Randy was talking about. Sabrina Merryweather.
The county coroner.
And Hayley’s arch-nemesis in high school.
They loathed each other back then, but now Sabrina apparently had amnesia about her mean-girl tactics from yesteryear and considered Hayley a close friend. Hayley, on the other hand, had never forgotten even one single nasty slight or vicious comment.
But Sabrina was an invaluable source of information when it came to the cause of death and other interesting tidbits about a corpse.
It was just the idea of calling her that made Hayley sick to her stomach. Sabrina could be so catty and annoying.
Still, she had to know.
“I’ll call you back, Randy,” Hayley said.
“You go, girl!” Randy said before she hung up on him.
Hayley called the coroner’s office. Normally the office would be closed on Sunday but Hayley was betting someone would be there because of the Mickey Pritchett murder. And she was right. Hayley asked the woman who answered if Sabrina was there. The woman said rather haughtily that Dr. Merryweather was in the middle of something and would most certainly have to return her call. Hayley begged the woman to tell Sabrina she was on the phone. Hayley could hear the woman scoffing, but finally she agreed to check with Sabrina just to make sure.
Hayley didn’t have high hopes. She presumed Sabrina was busy examining Mickey Pritchett’s corpse and would probably have to call back later.
“Hayley! I’m so happy to hear from you! You never call me anymore!” Sabrina came on the line and said.
Hayley only remembered having called her once since high school. And that was to find out information on another dead body, last year.
“I know. Look, I’m sure you’re super busy and I hate bothering you . . .”
“Oh, hell, that barbecued boy in the other room isn’t going anywhere. You wouldn’t believe how gross he looks. I often wonder why I got into this business. I just figured if I became a doctor, I might meet one. A really cute one. Talk about irony. Instead, I met a banker who decides to quit and become a so-called artist who likes to paint landscapes that nobody wants to buy, and now I’m the one supporting him! I really miss the days when our moms stayed home and our dads went to work.”
Hayley couldn’t remember a day when her mother didn’t go to work. Unlike Sabrina, she didn’t come from a wealthy family.
“So, Sabrina, this guy you’re examining, Mickey Pritchett. I was wondering if you could tell me . . . ?”
“He works for Wade Springer. You know him, don’t you, Hayley? Of course you do. I saw you two canoodling on the front page of both papers. Really, Hayley. Have you no shame?” Sabrina said, bursting out in a fit of giggles. “What I wouldn’t do to be you! Is he really as cute in person as he looks in the papers?”
“Well, he certainly is handsome, but I’m just working for him . . .”
“I guess I’ll see for myself in a few days. I got front row seats at both concerts.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful, Sabrina. So, about Mickey . . .”
“It’s like you’re psychic, Hayley, calling me today, because I was going to call you. After I saw your picture in the paper, I got all sad and frowny, and you want to know why? We never see each other! Ever! We are so overdue for a night out. So what I was thinking is, why not go on a double date?”
“Lex is out of town for a couple weeks.”
“Who’s talking about Lex? The guy is a hunk and nice to look at, but about as boring as a downed oak tree! I mean, seriously, what’s he going to talk about? How many leaves he raked in one day? Yawn!”
“Then who . . . ?”
“You and Wade!”
“But we’re not . . .”
“I saw the pictures! Don’t tell me there isn’t a spark between you two! And I am just dying to meet him. So let me make a reservation somewhere nice, even though now that summer’s over, all the good restaurants are shut down. But I’ll find something that works, and then the four of us—you, me, Wade, and my idiot husband, who I promise won’t drone on about art or politics, because, well, let’s face it, he’s one of those bleeding hearts, and I assume since Wade is a country singer from a red state, he’s probably conservative like my beloved Lee Greenwood who sang that classic ‘Proud To Be an American’ song—”
Hayley couldn’t believe Sabrina had said all that without taking a breath.
“What do you say, Hayley?”
“Um, sure, that sounds like a plan,” Hayley said, already panicking about committing Wade to a dinner with Sabrina and her husband.
But Hayley still needed information.
She could always call and cancel later.
Sabrina squealed. “I’m so excited! Omigod, did I just quote the Pointer Sisters? I loved listening to them as a kid!”
Hayley held the phone away from her ear to keep from going deaf.
“Well, I better get back to work,” Sabrina sighed. “Duty calls. I hate when someone dies under suspicious circumstances on a Sunday. It ruins my entire weekend!”
“Wait. Before you go, I know your professional ethics are uncompromised and you would never talk to me about anything before you complete your autopsy and consult with the police . . .”
“What do you want to know?”
Sabrina obviously didn’t care about ethics right now. She thought Hayley was her ticket to an intimate dining experience with country superstar Wade Springer.
“Mickey Pritchett.”
“Burned to a crisp.”
“So the bus caught fire somehow and Mickey got trapped inside and burned to death?”
“The bus caught fire and Mickey certainly was in it. But that’s not how he died,” Sabrina said matter-of-factly.
“Then how?”
“There’s a big hole in his chest. Somebody shot him.”
Hayley nearly stopped breathing. “What?”
“He was murdered.”