Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (42 page)

Moisture beaded on my green glass bottle. “I was in the master bathroom that night.”

Patsy dug-out a baggie out of her front pocket. She reached her fingers past the generous wad of Jackson’s happy grass she’d confiscated, and the note she’d created. Her fingers clasped Nash’s engraved butane lighter and Bridget’s earring.

He fingered the lighter Patsy had handed him as he rewound his memory. “Bridget--she…”

The wind blew in the open window clunking the slatted blinds against the sill. I looked out at the deck and below, to make sure we were still alone. “You need to tell Katie Lee.”

He tipped his beer can and guzzled.

“It was a one-time stupid mistake. It was nothing. Bridget seduced me.”

Patsy scoffed, but I didn’t. I knew Bridget.

Color drained from Nash’s face. He looked sickly. “If I tell Katie Lee, I’ll lose her.”

I tugged a corner of the label on my wine cooler. “Katie Lee deserves to know. If you love her, you’ll tell her.”

Nash crunched his empty can, reluctant to make a promise.

“You’re kiddin’ yourself,” Patsy said, “if you think you can keep this lie hidden.”

Childlike, Nash said, “I’ll tell her.”

“Tonight?” Patsy asked.

“Jesus, Patsy.”

“Now, tell us what you know about Billy Ray and this art scam.”

Patsy put a hand on her hip. “And maybe we can keep you out of prison.”

“Hand me another beer.”

EVERYTHING IN JACKSON’S APARTMENT seemed as it had been, minus a little cannabis. I glanced at my Swatch. Ten til eight. I’d been dinking around for over twenty minutes. Even though I didn’t find the Clementine Hunter, my guess had been on target. Trotting down the deck stairs, I hoped Macy had told Katie Lee a believable excuse.

“Are we cool?” I asked Nash and Patsy.

“As a cucumber,” Patsy said.

Turning the corner of the building my feet locked. I still had something to find. I suspected it was near. “I’ll meet you at the boat in two minutes.”

Patsy dug in her pocket for cigarettes. She handed one to Nash. He put it between his lips, lit hers, then his. With his eyes on the lighter, he nodded his head. “We’ll wait.”

My adrenaline pumped, and I speed-walked with purpose. Last November, I’d only glanced at the Clementine Hunter through the window. It had been months since I’d seen it, or the original in Dad’s shop. If it was an accurate copy, I wasn’t sure I could to pick out the inconsistencies and worried I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.

The last time I stood in front of the art gallery, autumn leaves danced with the wind on the sidewalk. The stark branches had undergone a rebirth, and beneath the streetlights, bright green buds had begun to open. Outside the storefront, I admired the Easter window display. Ceramic eggs dangling from silk ribbons hung over sweet grass baskets and Edgefield pottery. The
Baptism
was gone.

The periwinkle painted brick gallery was as I’d remembered. Only this time a pineapple door stop held the Dutch door open. A woman dressed in a salmon sweater set and navy pants asked, “Can I help you?”

“On my last visit, there was an oil painting in the window. It was a southern plantation primitive. Bright colors.”

She glanced at my jeans and army jacket then looked back into the magazine she’d been scanning. “The Clementine Hunter?”

“I guess that was it. Do you still have the piece?”

She peered over half-frame glasses and rested her hand as a marker in the catalogue she read. “Sorry dear, I sold it before Christmas. Maybe there’s something else I can help you with?”

“Oh, I wasn’t going to buy it. It’s just that I’d told someone about it. My roommate’s mom. Cecil Brown.”

Her face brightened. “Your Katie Lee’s roommate?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you tell Cecil if she wants that Clementine, she’s gonna have to scoot on over to the McGee’s. If she can’t live without it, she’ll have to figure a way to talk Margie into selling it.”

Thanking the owner for her time, I slipped her business card into my pocket. I didn’t know who Margie McGee was, but I needed to find out.

Three businesses down, I spotted a pay phone. Inserting a quarter, I dialed the phone number I’d memorized. He answered on the second ring.

“Storm?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s Rachael O’Brien?”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. Listen. I’m in New Bern, and I found some things I think you should know about.”

“I’m listening.”

“You need to get a search warrant for Bubba Jackson’s place. He lives in an apartment above the Marina Supply Store. He’s got over two dozen forged paintings in his hall closet. They’re packaged and addressed to art galleries.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“That’s not all. The Clementine Hunter that used to be in the art gallery on Main Street was sold back in December.”

“Do you know who bought it?”

“Margie McGee.”

“Anything else?”

“Judge Husk Driskill is Dr. Brown’s golf partner. He drinks bourbon. Woodford Reserve. It may help if you had a bottle before you ask for the warrant.”

“Rachael, you’ve done enough. Get yourself back to the Brown’s and tuck-in for the night.”

“How do you know where I am?”

“Rachael.”

“Careful with those crab cages, you never know what you’ll catch.”

NOTE TO SELF

Being followed by the FBI is both a comfort and annoyance, like being chaperoned on a date.

Patsy and Macy smoked weed from under the toilet lid--like drinking an open soda you found in a park?

41

D
eranged
M
arshmallow
P
eep

“
Are
you okay?” Katie Lee had asked me.

Macy zipped her purse. “I told her.”

“Told her what?” I asked feeling panicked.

“About your bathroom issues.”

“What?”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Macy said. “We all know you had the runs. Shit happens.”

Low-lit dock lights reflected the black water the Bayliner floated in. Leaving the explanation of why I was gone so long, alone. Katie Lee started the engine and turned the boat around. On the cushioned backbench, I huddled between Macy and Patsy. The guy wearing the wool hat who’d been messing with the fishing cages was gone. I knew he would be. Storm was a handsome agent. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that my adrenaline surged when I gave him leads to help wrap up the case.

Katie Lee puttered out of the marina then lurched the ski boat into open water. With the wind in our faces, the three of us ducked our heads and held onto our hair. An open BJ between my knees sloshed onto my shoes every time Katie Lee hit chop. Macy reached into her purse and pulled out a paper bag.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Camera.”

I looked inside. “This is an underwater disposable.”

Macy hunched her shoulders. “It’s all they had.”

My pockets were at capacity. Something needed to come out to make room for the camera. I handed Macy my Walkman. “Do you have room for this?”

She took it from me and slotted in into her purse.

Clustered tree canopies created monster blotches of darkness between sky and land. Beyond sloping banks of the Trent River, light from kitchens, and family rooms shone through bay windows of homes with views.

It was a short ride and Katie Lee slowed near a dock that jetted out from a clearing. A two-story boathouse with garage doors hung over the water. Wraparound picture windows provided unobstructed views and inside I could see people playing darts.

“This is some property,” Macy said.

Nash leapt out with the line in his hand. “Mack McGee is the biggest developer in town. He’s done well for himself.”

Water crashed against the rocky shore and the ski boat bumper knocked into the wood dock. I hadn’t seen Meredith since Katie Lee’s house party back in November.

“McGee?” I said, searching my memory bank. “Is that Meredith’s last name?”

“I thought you knew,” Katie Lee said.

My throat tightened. It couldn’t be. Nothing worthwhile was easy. “Patsy, what’s Meredith’s mom’s name?”

“Margie.”

KATIE LEE STOOD ON THE DOCK. She checked the knot Nash had tied. Satisfied, she looked at me where I still sat on the bench in the boat. “Are ya comin’?”

A whip-poor-will called from the wooded thicket and someone inside the boathouse let out a playful holler. Some things in life chase you. A familiar face, a destination, a building. It can be anything, hovering in your mind and sending reminders until you meet it, appreciate it, and give it the attention it deserves. I wanted Katie Lee to take me back to her house. Hell, I wanted to sip scotch and play a friendly game of scrabble with the Brown’s. But there was no turning away. A painting needed to be found.

I stood, my legs swaying in rhythm with the rocking boat. “I’m coming.”

Macy sipped the last of her wine cooler. Wiping the corners of her mouth, she asked, “Where are Meredith’s parents?”

Patsy sashayed along the threaded dock planks toward shore. “Her daddy’s on a business trip, and her mom’s shopping with a client in Raleigh until tomorrow.”

A flight of railroad cross-tied steps led us up the grassy slope where we could see the main house. The lower-level was ablaze, the second-story dark. Underwater pool lights reflected upon a balcony. Lion-mouth fountains jetted arcs of water, creating circular ripples in the rectangular abyss.

Katie Lee opened the sliding doors where underage New Bern patrons filled the McGee’s kitchen. Meredith was home from UNC-Chapel Hill. Outstretching her arms, Katie Lee greeted her, and she hugged all of us, except Nash. “Hello Nash,” she said, lingering on the ‘sh’. She didn’t show him any of the sixties peace-lovin’ hippy she dressed as on Halloween. Her greeting would have put my tail between my legs, but Nash ignored her, pretending his beer had more personality and deserved his attention.

Scanning the kitchen, I didn’t see Billy Ray or Stewart Hayes. I’d never met Bubba Jackson, so he’d be the most difficult to spot. Patsy had given me a description, but I didn’t see a mound of dip in anyone’s lower lip. Bubba continued to elude me.

 I told Meredith, “Your home is killer.”

She swished a hand in the air. “Daddy builds ‘em, and Mama decorates ‘em.”

“This is some get together,” Patsy said.

Meredith steadied herself with a firm grip on the countertop. “I know. I’m pissed. I invited a few friends over, and all of The Bern shows up. I had to wait in line to use my own bathroom.”

Standing around in a huddle, I didn’t pay attention to the conversation but surveyed the home. Mrs. McGee had arranged antique blown-glass vases, and bright ceramic canisters in uneven groupings. A low-lit lamp with a handpainted rooster on the shade rested next to an ivy plant that grew out of a hammered copper, ear-handle kettle. The chunky-white, kitchen baseboards framed sandstone-painted walls. A rustic table, upholstered chairs and iron rod cushioned bar stools were scaled to accommodate the enormous room.

Framed oil landscapes and still life’s matted in linen hung at eye level. The McGee’s had deep pockets to support their love of art. Maybe I didn’t need to talk to Billy Ray, Bubba Jackson or Stewart Hayes. If the Clementine Hunter hung somewhere in the house, I could just snap a photo. I’d have to use the underwater camera since I’d used up the Fuji film in Jackson’s apartment. If I gave the film to Storm, he could cross-reference the photo with the curator files in New Orleans. 

PATSY DIDN’T LIKE CROWDS and convinced us to retreat to the boathouse to play a game of pool. Oak trees lining both sides of the path thickened as we approached the water. The glow of landscape lights cast shimmers on the rocky bank and along the dock. Across the river, twinkles blinked from the bank like fleeting stars.

I trotted down the grass-covered railroad ties behind Patsy. Macy, Katie Lee and Nash lollygagged near the pool. Near the boathouse, Patsy pulled out her pipe and packed it with a clump of Jackson’s secret stash. She offered the pipe to me. I raised both hands in a pass signal.

Macy crept up behind me and whispered, “You need to relax.”

“I’ll relax when tonight is over.”

“Raz,” Patsy said, “You got the photos. What else do you need?”

“I didn’t find the right painting.”

Patsy flicked a Bic lighter. “Maybe Billy Ray has it over at his place.”

I grimaced. “He might.” I didn’t tell the two that I suspected the painting was here, somewhere in the house. Dragging one or both of them on a scavenger hunt, after they’d smoked Patsy’s peace pipe would slow me down, and could draw unwanted attention. I’d do it alone.

THE INTERIOR OF THE BOATHOUSE didn’t have any of the fussy upholstered chairs and decorative knick-knacks like the main house. Wide plank pecan floorboards were underfoot, and matching molding framed the windows. I plopped onto a leather sofa and watched Nash. He’d been quiet on the boat ride. Nash wasn’t a quiet person. Normally conversation didn’t lull with him in a room. He liked to ask the kind of questions that made you roar or pissed you off. Tonight he didn’t have any of us talking. His silence made me edgy. If he opened his mouth to the wrong people, I’d be screwed. He didn’t have a solid track record, and I wondered if he’d keep his promise.

Patsy laid on the table and spread her arms across it to claim dibs. “Ladies, pick your cues and prepare for a spankin’.”

I tapped Nash on the knee and stood. The sooner I whooped Patsy in a game of pool, the sooner I could make an excuse and look for the painting. When I reached for a cue, I heard voices come through the glass door. My throat went dry, and I thumbed the trinket on my neck. We had company. Billy Ray motioned at Stewart to keep quiet. Sneaking up behind Patsy, he bent his knees into the back of hers, collapsing her stance. “Hey Patsy,” he teased.