Death Over the Dam (A Hunter Jones Mystery Book 2) (6 page)

“Probably a dozen,” Hunter said, wishing that she could sort her pictures out first for Tyler, who was sure to comment on how often Sam showed up.

“OK, then,” he went on.” We need a story on the whole flood, one on the estimated damage and where the money might come from for restoring things, and a long one on what happened to Cathay. We’d probably better have a big Cathay picture over the fold on page one, or we’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Oh and there’s another good story,” Hunter said. “Sam told me an old wooden coffin washed over the Timpoochee Dam but it turns out it wasn’t an old body. It was somebody with up-to-date dental work.”

Tyler whistled.

“That is a good one. Any foul play suspected?”

“I’ll see if they’ve found out anything more,” Hunter said. “I’m having breakfast with Taneesha Martin, and she’ll probably know everything about it since she was there when they got it out of the creek.”

Taneesha was having a half grapefruit and black coffee for breakfast in penance for having eaten all her meals at her grandmother’s house over the weekend.

“Yes,” she said in answer to Hunter’s question. “We want a story about it in the paper. Somebody’s got to know who this guy was, so he can be buried again.”

“It was definitely a man?” Hunter asked.

“That’s according to the crime lab in Macon. We transported the casket and the remains up there. Definitely a guy. Something about the pelvic bones.

“Do you think it was a crime?”

“We don’t know one way or the other. There’s nothing in the remains that would say how this man died, and it’s hard to imagine somebody committing a murder and then going to the trouble of finding a casket for the victim and burying it. Sam’s thinking somebody just had a private burial, because they didn’t want all the funeral home costs, and that once the word gets around, they’ll show up. To tell you the truth, nobody’s spent much time on it yet.”

“The other papers don’t know about it?”

“They didn’t ask,” Taneesha said, pushing the grapefruit aside and waving to Annelle, who came over laughing.

“I knew you weren’t going to make it on that grapefruit,” she said. “How about a ham biscuit?”

“How about two ham biscuits?” Taneesha said.

Hunter changed the subject.

“Do you know Grady Bennett?” she asked.

“Big dumb guy with a beard?” Taneesha asked. “That Grady Bennett?”

“I don’t know that he’s dumb,” Hunter said. “But he’s a big guy with a beard. Seems nice.”

“I went to school with him,” Taneesha said. “I think he dropped out as soon as he was 16 and they’d let him. His mother used to come in here when she worked for Thomson Realty, but I haven’t seen her in a long time.”

“She’s got a shop in Cathay now,” Hunter said. “It’s that one called ‘Shabby Chick.’ Anyway, do you know where Grady works? I bought some paintings his wife did and they’ve got a little flood water on them, and..”

“Grady Bennett’s got a wife?”

“Yes, her name is Dee Dee…”

Taneesha concentrated on her ham biscuit for a minute and said, “I think maybe he gets work with different contractors, and I shouldn’t have called him dumb. I just know school wasn’t his thing, except for shop classes. Somebody told me once that he could fix just about anything, do his own car repairs, and build furniture, all that stuff.”

Back at the Messenger, Hunter got down to work. It was almost 11 when Tyler came out to talk about the photography.

“Excellent work,” he said, “I’m thinking we use the one of the man in the boat handing the little girl the cat on page one, four columns, and the one with the governor and the mayor beneath the fold, and we’ll have a whole page of the shots from the airplane, and another from Sunday, but let’s try not to use more than ten that have Sam Bailey in them.”

Hunter blushed, laughed and nodded.

Tyler said, “I’m going to write my column about how us old folks didn’t know what was coming, so we should be thankful that Sam Bailey and Clarence Bartow and all their people did.”

He turned to roll his wheelchair off, and stopped.

“And I was thinking,” he said, “From now on you might want to put Associate Editor after your name instead of Staff Writer.”

“Thank you,” Hunter said, as he rolled his wheelchair away.

She found herself in a confused mood: half wanting to run after Tyler and hug him, and half wanting to ask him if a raise came with the new title. She decided that for the moment it would be best to keep working.

She had lunch with Sam, but not at R&J’s. Instead, they met at a little barbecue place, Porky’s, outside of Cathay.

She told him about Tyler’s telling her to change her job title.

“That’s nice,” Sam said, between bites of his supersized pulled pork sandwich. “Did he give you a raise?”

“No, unless he just plans to add it to my paycheck.”

Sam pondered the situation.

“Wait until this issue is out,” and then tell him you want a raise and you deserve one.”

“I’ll think about it, “Hunter said.

Sam shook his head and said. “Just do it. You were going to walk across the river bridge to get to Cathay, and Bubba Shipley apparently put you through some acrobatics in that airplane, but for some reason you’re too timid to ask Tyler Bankston for a raise. He ought to go ahead and retire and let you be the editor.”

“Not to change the subject,” Hunter said, changing the subject, “but do you know how I can get in touch with Grady Bennett? I bought two paintings his wife did, and they both have some flood stains right on the bottom of the canvas. I’m hoping they can fix them for me. I hardly paid anything for them and I wouldn’t mind paying more…”

“Grady’s got a wife?” Sam asked.

“Here we go again,” Hunter said laughing. “For the first time, I know something everybody else doesn’t already know. Yes, Grady has a wife. She’s very pretty and dresses like somebody out of the sixties and she’s a wonderful artist. It’s like primitive art.”

“Like Grandma Moses?” Sam asked.

“Well, sort of, but maybe more like Howard Finster. You know the artist from up near Rome. His paintings are in the High Museum.”

Sam didn’t.

“So you bought two?”

“Yes. Grady’s mother had them outdoors for her flood sale over in Cathay, and they were just $5 and $10. The canvas alone would cost more than that. I don’t think she has any idea how talented her daughter-in-law is.”

“Grady lives in his old family home way out past Timpoochee Lake, or where the lake was,” Sam said. “His Mama and Daddy got divorced a good while before his Daddy died, so she had already moved out and he inherited the whole thing—house, land and all.”

Sam’s cell phone rang, ending the discussion. The District Attorney had showed up, wanting to talk about the mysterious body in the coffin.

Hunter went straight back to her writing when she reached the office. The paper was printed on Wednesday morning, which meant that Tuesday was really the deadline day for all but last minute news.

Still, this was too big a job to toss together in a hurry. This would be an issue that would prove one more time that when there was a big story in Magnolia County, the Messenger would be the paper that had the most coverage and the best coverage.

It would be the one they submitted for journalism awards, and the one Hunter would tuck into her own portfolio, if she went job hunting.

She didn’t want to leave Merchantsville or Sam Bailey, but she knew if things changed between them and she wanted to leave, she’d need to have good work to show to other editors and even some prizes if possible. Everybody in the business had warned her that it was next to impossible to get a job at a big daily paper if you were coming from a small town weekly, unless you had great work to show.

She started with the story requiring the least creativity—the one on the governor’s promises of state and federal help.

“Hunter Jones. I can’t believe it.”

The voice was only dimly familiar, and it took her a moment to remember the name of the chubby balding man standing at her desk, loaded down with cameras. He was somebody she had met a few times when she worked in Atlanta, and she remembered him mostly because of his suspenders and plaid shirt. Who else in the world still wore suspenders?

“Ned Thigpen, what are you doing here?”

“Looking for a story, “he said. “I’m doing features for Red Clay Roads now, and I heard there was a flood down here, so I thought I’d pull the oldest trick in the book and stop by the weekly paper. What on God’s green earth is a city girl like you doing here? Talk about the end of nowhere. It took me less time to get from Marietta down to Macon than it did to find this place once I got off I-75. I never saw so many pine trees and farm fields and detour signs.

She started to answer his question and say that she had come here to get away from the big city rush and write a novel, but it had been six months since she had even looked at the novel, so she skipped that part. Besides, she didn’t really have time for a long chat, and she knew he didn’t really care. His friendly banter was preliminary to his asking for her help.

“Well, how about helping an old guy out?” he said, proving her right.

He shifted his camera bag off one shoulder and put it down, taking a seat without being offered one, and opening his laptop..

He gave her a look of anticipation.

“The place you’ll get the best pictures is over in Cathay,” she said. “That’s where the flood did the most damage and there are lots of people volunteering over there.”

“Anybody in particular I should talk to over there?

“Anybody wearing gloves and working in the dirty water,” she said.

“Got some names?”

.“There’s a webpage for Cathay if you want some basic statistics,” she said. “The mayor’s name is Debbie Taylor. It’s a very small town. You won’t have any trouble finding people to interview.”

Ned had stopped listening and was staring past her.

“My God,” he said. “Those are Deirdre Donagan’s paintings, aren’t they?”

“Is that her name? Deirdre?” Hunter asked. “I was told Dee Dee. She’s a pretty girl, long dark hair. Dresses like an artist.”

“That’s her. Probably folks down here can’t pronounce Deirdre. Where’d you get these?”

“You know her?” Hunter countered.

“Well, not all that well, though I’d know her work anywhere. I did a story about her and her dad four or five years ago up at Cloudland Canyon. He’s a really good nature photographer, and she was doing these wild paintings. She just kept painting and he did all the talking as I remember. Where’d you buy these?”

“Would you believe I bought them in Cathay yesterday at a flood sale? She’s married to a guy who lives down here.”

“Do you know how I can reach her?” he asked.” I’ve lost track of her dad and I’d sure like to ask her how to catch up with him. He has some old cameras you wouldn’t believe, and he wanted to sell this old Hasselblad…”

“No. I really don’t. I’m sorry,” Hunter said.

She considered telling him where to find Sharon Bennett, and reconsidered. Sharon might be more cooperative with a man, but that was just the point. Ned might be willing to ask other writers for information, but he’d be naturally cagey about his own plans, and if anybody was going to do the first story about Deirdre Dee Dee Donagan Bennett moving to the boondocks, it was going to be Hunter Jones, not Ned Thigpen.

She did tell him how to get to Cathay, though, and she began to wonder as she wound up drawing a map, explaining and re-explaining, how the man had even found his way to Merchantsville.

“You ought to get a GPS,” she said.

“People keep telling me that,” he said, “but I’m just not into all this technology stuff. I’m still using film in my camera, too. Probably the last one left in Georgia besides Mike Donagan. He’s still using film, or he was last I talked to him. Said he wouldn’t ever change, and he’s into all the other computer stuff big time. He just likes doing his own developing.”

Hunter finally got him out the door, and then he popped back in again

“How’s that restaurant on the other side of the courthouse?” he said, “I’m going to need some supper. I’ll treat if you want to join me.”

“It’s good,” Hunter said, “and thank you, but I’ve got a meeting.”

Ned Thigpen waved goodbye.

“Who was that?” Tyler said, coming out of his office.

“You ever heard of Ned Thigpen?”

“Oh, yeah. Freelancer, lots of folksy stuff with pretty good pictures.”

“That’s the one,” Hunter said, “He’s way out of his territory. I did tell him how to get to Cathay, but I don’t know if he’s even going to find the bridge.”

She was about to tell Tyler that Ned Thigpen had known about the artist who did her new paintings, but Novena came through the door triumphant over her ad sales and when the celebrating was over, everybody settled back down to work.

Meanwhile on the other side of the flooded river, in the office of The Good Shepherd Church, Arnette Rayburn was having a comfortable talk with her husband, Pastor Jimmy Rayburn, going over plans for the week, talking about the flock, members and non-members, they considered their responsibility.