CHAPTER 27

THE PIRATE’S DEN was crowded with customers celebrating the end of the work week. While waiting for a table, Cal and Kelly endured a half hour of modern country pop, songs about girls in blue jeans, boys with trucks, and people everywhere drinking. The gray-bearded man nursing a bottle of beer next to them launched into a tirade about the state of country music.

“Country music sold its soul to the devil years ago,” the man said. “Nashville ain’t put out a listenable song in fifteen years.”

“More ‘an that,” mumbled his drinking companion.

“Probably right. There ain’t no Hank or young Waylon Jennings or Merle Haggard to rescue us from this garbage.”

“Don’t we wish.”

Cal and Kelly nodded in agreement, which was little more than a polite gesture.

The gray-bearded man stared at Cal.

“Who’s your favorite country music singer, buddy?” he said, slapping Cal on the arm.

Cal squinted and looked skyward, all in an effort to give him time to conjure up the name of at least one country musician from yesteryear. He was coming up empty.

“He loves the Charlie Daniels Band,” Kelly said, saving him from sure scorn. “He loves the song about the devil going down to Georgia.”

“Uh huh,” the man said as he nodded. “Y’all ain’t from ‘round here, are ya?”

“What gave us away?” Cal asked with a slight grin.

“Y’all talk funny—both of ya.”

The hostess called out, “Murphy, party of three. Murphy, party of three.”

Cal exhaled, relieved to be saved from further critique about their mode of transportation or dress appearance compared to the majority of The Pirate’s Den clientele. He and Kelly followed the young woman to their table.

“Where’s the other member of your party?” she asked.

“He’s on his way,” Cal said. “Would you mind pointing him in our direction when he gets here?”

“Will do,” she said, winking at Cal before she walked away.

“What do you think this is all about with Tripp Sloan?” Kelly asked.

“Maybe he wants to clear his conscience,” Cal said. “Remember that Drake said he was hanging out with Tripp right here the night of Susannah’s murder.”

“Let’s hope so.”

When the waitress came around, Cal and Kelly both went for stronger drinks, ordering some craft beers from a Savannah brewery. They didn’t have to wait long before Tripp Sloan slid into one of the empty chairs at their table.

“Tripp Sloan,” he said, offering his hand to Cal and then Kelly. “It’s so nice to meet y’all. My dad told me I should talk to you while I was here.”

“Really?” Cal said. “And your father is Sheriff Sloan?”

Tripp nodded. “I see you’ve become fairly acquainted with him. He can be very off-putting at times.”

“And threatening,” Kelly said. “But let’s not quibble over that.”

Tripp nodded knowingly. “Well, I don’t live in Pickett any more and never intend on returning. Draw your own conclusions about that, if you know what I mean.”

Tripp flagged down the waitress, whose jaw dropped when he she recognized him. They talked for a minute before she scampered back to the kitchen to get his drink.

“Bekah and I went to Pickett County High together,” Tripp said. “She was a freshman when I was a senior, but we stayed in touch until I moved away about eight years ago.”

“So, why’d you move?” Cal asked.

“I think I’ve made it abundantly clear why I pulled up my roots and left,” Tripp said. “I also had some job opportunities in Savannah that were far more lucrative than anything I’d ever get in Pickett.”

“Okay, we don’t want to hold you up here,” Cal said as he leaned forward, “but let’s cut to the chase. What can you tell us about the night of your sister’s murder, Isaiah Drake, and anything else related to this case?”

Bekah handed Tripp a beer bottle, which he promptly began to peel the label off of. “Let me preface everything by saying I drank quite heavily that night,” Tripp said. “And the next few nights after, to be honest. Losing Susannah was hard on my whole family. But to answer your question, that night wasn’t all that unusual as I recall.”

“You met Isaiah Drake here?” Cal asked.

Tripp nodded. “I wasn’t the only one with Drake that night. My boy Jordan Hayward was here. Jacob Boone was here, though he was drinking with some other guys.”

“When did Drake leave The Pirate’s Den?”

Tripp pointed to a spot along the wall. “Drake was standing right there. He went to the bar to get a drink, stopped, and then made a dash for the parking lot.”

“What did you do?”

“I followed him outside, of course, to see what was goin’ on. He left so quickly. Then Jordan Hayward went after him. I was worried something was seriously wrong. Like maybe somebody had died or somethin’. Little did I know somebody was about to—and that would be my sister.”

“Did you ask him why he was leaving?” Kelly asked.

“By the time I reached the parking lot, his Phantom was peelin’ out onto the road.”

“So, Hayward went with him?”

“I think so. I mean, eventually he showed back up at the bar by himself, but who really knows where he went. He said he didn’t want to talk about it when he got back.”

“What about Jacob Boone?” Cal asked.

“Oh, he left during that time and—”

“During what time?” Cal pressed.

“The time that Susannah was murdered, according to the coroner.”

“And the police never questioned him?”

Tripp laughed. “You mean my dad? He was confident it was Drake and made sure that not only the charges stuck, but that he gave the prosecutor enough evidence to bury him.”

Cal’s eyes widened. “So, you think they got the wrong man?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. I think the evidence supports someone other than Drake. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t have anything to do with it.” Tripp chuckled. “I tried to tell my dad that, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Nailing Susannah’s killer was Dad’s top priority in life—but I think he only did that to make himself feel better. It certainly wasn’t the justice-minded person who I knew him to be. It was like something snapped in my dad; I can’t really explain it.”

“So, who do you think did it?”

Tripp shrugged. “Maybe Drake or someone else. Could’ve been Jacob Boone.”