I was thinking of the food I hadn’t eaten for nearly twelve hours. And bourbon. Lots and lots of bourbon. I passed through the lobby of the resort and walked a straight line toward the restaurant. I nearly made it, too. Except I was intercepted by Cheryl Turk.
“Detective Taylor? You said…” Cheryl held up a ledger for me to see. “You asked if I could tell you about Mereshack before the mayor was killed.”
“Yes, yes I did. It’s kind of you to get back to me.”
I nearly added that I had forgotten all about it, but managed to check myself in time.
“Do you want to look at this?” Cheryl asked.
“Absolutely.”
Cheryl led me back into the lobby to a table that we both could lean against. Her ledger was actually a blue three-ring binder like the kind school kids carry that she used to keep copies of her invoices, a running tally of her income, and instructions from her clients. She showed me a page from over a year ago and proceeded to tell me what was printed on it.
“It was a Sunday afternoon, and Mrs. Barrington was getting ready to leave, and she called me down to Mereshack to tell me what she wanted done while she was gone, and when I arrived she was standing on her deck, the back deck facing the woods, and she was talking to the mayor. Yelling at him, really. See here.” Cheryl pointed at a notation on the sheet that read Mayor Franson on deck during conversation.
“Conversation?” I said.
“What happened, I arrived and I parked my car and I was walking toward them, and Mrs. Barrington was shouting until she saw me, then she starting doing this with her hand.”
Cheryl waved her own hand like Catherine the Great dismissing her subjects.
“Mrs. Barrington was always doing that,” Cheryl said.
She waved her hand some more.
“I’m like, I came all the way down here on a Sunday. She’s like, it’s all a terrible mistake, you’re doing a wonderful job, I’ll call you next week. I’m like, fine. I wrote it all down, though. See?”
Cheryl pointed at the ledger again.
“She was always telling me to do stuff or not telling me to do stuff and then forgetting about it, so I write it down to, you know, cover my ass, like I told you yesterday.”
“When did this meeting take place?” I asked.
“Right here. I got the date right here at the top.”
Cheryl tapped it with a fingernail in case I missed it.
“Two days later, someone shot the mayor,” I said.
“Except two days later, Mrs. Barrington wasn’t here. I know because…” Cheryl turned a page in her ledger. “Two days later—it was a Tuesday—I was out there cleaning the place and she was like gone. Only Devon was there, and what’s-her-face, the black woman. You know, Mr. Taylor, I know you’re a real detective and all that, but really, no one believes that Mrs. Barrington shot the mayor. I’m telling you, it was the wife. Maybe the brother helped.”
* * *
I managed to get into the restaurant. The hostess apparently preferred that I didn’t take up an entire table by myself during the peak dinner hour and suggested I sit at the bar. I told her I wanted a table, and she gave me the worst one they had, near the kitchen door. A few moments later, a waitress appeared with a menu and asked if I wanted a beverage before ordering.
“Maker’s Mark on the rocks,” I told her.
She shuffled away, and I began to study the menu. That’s when my smartphone chirped. Someone sent me a text. I rarely get texts and seldom send them myself. I checked. It was from Devon.
How come you haven’t called?
I replied, I was at a crime scene.
Devon’s reply—Who was shot?—came with a smiling emoji.
Not shot—a bomb.
Who got blown up?—with two giggling emoticons and one with its fingers crossed.
Oh, for Christ’s sake, I told myself. I called Devon’s number.
“Hey,” I said.
“Who got blown up?”
“No one. Just some equipment at the silica sand mine at the edge of town.”
“Was it bad?”
“The damage was confined to a storage silo and a truck. They’ll probably be back in business by tomorrow morning if not sooner.”
“What does this have to do with my mother’s case?”
“Probably nothing at all.”
“Oh. Well, then, Taylor, have you eaten yet?”
“No.”
“Come over. Come to Mereshack. Ophira is making Cajun stew. It’s really good. Sausage and shrimp. Okra. The only time I ever eat okra is when I’m having Ophira’s Cajun stew. Taylor…”
“Probably not a good idea. Your mother wouldn’t like it.”
“What Mommy doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
“What does Ophira say?”
Devon’s voice sounded like she was a long way off, and I pictured her holding up the cell phone as she spoke. “Ophira, is it all right if Taylor comes for dinner?”
Silence. A moment later, Devon was back on the phone.
“She said it was all right.”
“I didn’t hear a thing.”
“That’s because she was nodding her head. Taylor, please?”
Neither Mrs. Barrington nor David Helin would like it if they heard, but I needed to ask the girl a question for my own peace of mind.
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I said.
The waitress arrived as I stood up and slipped the smartphone back into my pocket. She was carrying the glass of bourbon on a tray. I took the glass and drained its contents without pause. She looked at me as if I were the first raging alcoholic she had ever met.
* * *
I paid for the drink and headed to my Camry. My smartphone rang just as I reached it. I thought it was Devon calling back, but the caller ID read ALEXANDRA CAMPBELL.
“Hello,” I said.
“Taylor? Is this a bad time?”
“It is, but Alex, how are you?”
“We’re still on the first-name basis, then.”
“I’m sorry. I really am. I know you called. I’ve been trying to get back to you, but it’s been one thing after another. Are you all right?”
“I am. I had a couple of bad moments after the shooting. Now, though, looking back at what happened, I feel exhilarated. What does that say about me?”
“It says you’re tough as nails. Alex, how did you get this number?”
“I called your office the other day. Your partner—Freddie?”
“Sidney Poitier Fredericks.”
“No kidding? Sidney Poitier? Anyway, he said he’d tell you that I called. When I didn’t hear from you I decided, well, he’s not interested—”
“No, no, honestly. I’ve been meaning to call.”
“What I’m trying to say is, Freddie called me back, just a few minutes ago, and gave me your cell number and said it would be better if I called you instead of waiting for you to call me.”
That sonuvabitch, I’m going to kill him, I told myself. Out loud I said, “Absolutely. I’m going to have to thank him for doing that.”
“You said this was a bad time.”
“I need to interview a suspect.”
“That sounds like fun, interview a suspect.”
“The suspect is an almost-seventeen-year-old girl who’s being guarded by a very fierce nanny, governess, I’m not sure what to call her. I doubt it’ll be much fun.”
“More fun than what I do every day.”
“I’d like very much to learn what you do every day, but—”
“You need to go.”
“I promise I’ll call you back.”
“Don’t make any promises you can’t keep.”
“I promise I’ll try to call you back.”
“I’m a night owl, so if it’s late, don’t worry about it.”
I told her I wouldn’t.