Small Town Spin (12 page)

12.

Hymns and flying chicken

Sunday passed in a blur of cold medicine, minestrone, and
Friends
reruns, punctuated by phone calls. Parker was first up, confirming plans to go to the funeral and thanking me profusely for “what you did for Ashton.” I resisted the urge to jump his shit for telling them I suspected anything in the first place. He’d had a lousy enough week without me yelling at him.

I called Bob around lunchtime to pitch him the story on Bobbi Jo’s roadhouse, which I had decided was a much more fitting term for a place boasting degreed dancers in sequined bikinis than “smut joint.” He laughed for five minutes and gave me a green light. I dozed off and on all afternoon, and by the time Joey called at ten to seven I felt almost energetic.

“You have a handle on your schedule yet?” he asked.

“I’m free anytime except tomorrow afternoon,” I said, trying to ignore the memory of how Kyle’s arms had felt around me—and the double-edged sword I was walking. The only way Kyle could bust the moonshiners was if they were exporting their product. And the most likely way Joey would have a friend who knew the moonshiners was if the guy we were going to meet was providing the transportation. It seemed unfair to get them to talk to me and then set the ATF on them. And selfishly, I wanted Joey and Kyle as far apart as I could keep them, for a multitude of reasons.

“How about Tuesday evening?” he asked. “We might even grab dinner, if you feel like it. I want to talk about those fantasies you mentioned the other night.”

My stomach flipped. “I have no recollection of that.” I cleared my throat. “But dinner sounds nice. And thanks. This story is a big deal to me.”

“I recall enough for both of us. And no problem—this could be a big boost to your career if you’re right. There’s certainly enough of a spotlight here.”

“It’s not just the spotlight,” I said softly. “I really appreciate your help, Joey.”

“Getting you a source is easy. Keeping you out of trouble, I worry about.”

“It’s not like I go looking for it.”

“You do sometimes.”

“Not on purpose.”

“Uh-huh.”

A smile playing around my lips, I thanked him again and hung up, reaching for my laptop. Writing something non-tragic held a special appeal after the hollowed eyes that had haunted my dreams all week.

With menu items including a C-cup barbecue chicken breast and only “full racks” of ribs available, a roadhouse in Gloucester County is pulling in customers as much for the food as the show—and drawing the ire of a nearby church ladies’ auxiliary.

“We managed to keep this place out of Mathews proper, but then they came right across the line and opened up here,” Dorothy Scott, head of the First Baptist Church of Mathews Ladies’ Auxiliary, said. “And we don’t want our men’s minds poisoned.”

Scott and a friend have been frequenting the roadhouse’s parking lot, snapping photos of license plates and using online sources to make sure the wives of the club’s customers know where their husbands are spending their free time.

One of those customers tried unsuccessfully to run the women off Saturday, then defended the establishment when that didn’t work.

“It’s not like anyone’s naked in there,” he said, refusing to go on the record. “It’s art. Like the ballet.”

While there are dancers in the club, owner Bobbi Jo Ramsley said she opened it with an inheritance from her grandfather because the local economy needed a boost, and pointed out the sequined bikinis her dancers wear and the pickle jar she keeps on one end of the stage for tips as evidence of the strict hands-off policy she enforces.

I sent the story to Bob Sunday night. He loved it (he told me twice on Monday morning) proclaiming Bobbi Jo’s menu item names brilliant and talking up a field trip for some of the single guys on the staff.

Still grinning, I went back to my desk to grab a file I needed for the staff meeting and found a copy of the morning’s front page spread open across my desk. My advance on TJ’s funeral in the bottom corner of the page was marked up in red pen. My smile faded.

“Here’s what you need to learn,” I read from the margin before I stuffed the paper in the recycle bin.

I avoided Spence’s glare through the staff meeting, pretending I hadn’t seen his little love note. Shelby watched him stare daggers at me with interest, bouncing her knee impatiently. I was sure she couldn’t wait to corner him and commiserate.

Bob dismissed everyone but me and Parker, watching the rest of the staff file out before he asked Parker to shut the door. I steeled myself for a lecture about rising above office politics, figuring Spence had been bitching to him, too.

“You two square on the Okerson funeral today?” he asked.

Phew. I nodded, glad I was wrong. I might not have asked for this story, but I wasn’t letting it go now. Spence could get over it.

Parker nodded.

“I want this as an exclusive until it hits the racks in the morning,” Bob said. “Everyone and their brother will be calling looking for a comment about it, but they get nothing ’til our story is in print.” He glanced at me. “You feeling better?”

“Finally, thank God. I just have to finish the antibiotics they gave me,” I said.

“Good. You’ve been on top of your game so far, and I want it to stay that way.”

I exchanged a look with Parker.

“Bob, there’s more to this story than you know,” I began.

Bob leaned his elbows on his desk, shooting a glance between me and Parker. 

I looked at Parker and sighed, opening my mouth and cringing in anticipation of the fallout. Bob waffled between loving the results and hating the process when I played detective.

“I don’t think TJ killed himself,” Parker blurted before I could.

Bob’s eyes widened. “Now, Grant, I know this was your friend’s son—” he began.

“I don’t think he did, either,” I interrupted.

My editor sat back, steepling his fingers under his chin.

“This has always been a hard thing for you to write about, Nichelle. I remember when that kid last year was bullied on the Internet, you were depressed for weeks while you worked on that.”

“But I didn’t ever question what the cops were telling me, did I?” I pulled in a shaky breath. “I’m trying to keep personal feelings from clouding my judgment here, Bob. Harder than you can imagine. And this doesn’t feel right to me. It’s too easy, and it makes too little sense.”

“She’s right, chief. I thought the same thing before she ever said a word to me. I’ve known TJ since he was a baby. His parents are like family to me.”

Bob looked at me. “And the cops say what?”

“The sheriff is waiting for the tox screen to come back showing painkillers and alcohol so he can close the file. He’s more worried about copycat suicides than he is about whether or not the obvious answer here is the right one.”

“Given that there’s already been one of those, I’d say he’s got good reason for that,” Bob said.

“Parker got me an exclusive with the mothers Saturday night. Both of them.” I picked at a piece of lint on the arm of the chair, peeking at Bob through my lashes.

He put a hand up. “Don’t tell me. It’s a conspiracy. The girl was murdered, too, right?”

I swallowed a laugh at the skeptical look on his face.

“I’m poking around.”

“Dancers. I like the dancers. Write more about them.” He sighed, burying his head in his hands.

“I think there’s a moonshine operation out there that might be poisoning people,” I said. “Or people poisoning the moonshine, maybe. Either way. Illegal booze, dead kids—it’s an impressive headline.”

Parker coughed over a laugh and Bob peered at me from between splayed fingers. “Moonshine? Are you serious?”

“As a naturalizer nurse’s shoe.”

“Your friend at the ATF is helping you with this, I assume? The one who has a gun?”

I rolled my eyes. “Getting shot wasn’t fun. I don’t intend to repeat that experience.”

“I want you to chant that at the mirror every morning while you do your makeup. Mantras bring about positive self-change. I heard it on Oprah once.”

“Oprah is never wrong.” I nodded, and Bob rolled his eyes.

He stared for a long minute. “Hey, who am I to argue? If you’re right, it’ll be a hell of a story. But digging for something in a town that tiny won’t be easy with all the TV cameras hanging around.”

“The networks will clear out this evening,” I said. “They’re not interested in anything beyond TJ’s funeral.”

“Most of them, probably. But Charlie’s been out there, too, and where you go, she’ll go.”

“I’m not advertising what I’m working on, and the families aren’t talking to anyone else.”

“Just be careful,” he said. “And if you’re looking for a murderer where the cops aren’t, you better have it dead to rights before you bring it to me. You can’t accuse someone of murder in the newspaper when there’s no police report.”

I nodded understanding. “Not planning on it. In a perfect world, the cops will come on board when I find something compelling enough.”

“I know you’ll make sure we have it first if you take it to them,” Bob said.

“Of course.”

“And the funeral is priority one today.”

Parker checked his watch.

“Speaking of priorities, if I’m going to file my column before we leave, I should get to work on it.”

“And I need to call Aaron about a couple of police reports,” I said. “The trials I’m missing to go to Mathews might have to wait ’til tomorrow, but I’ll do my best to track down the lawyers and get an update in tonight. It might be late.”

“We can hold Metro ’til nine-thirty before the guys downstairs get pissy. The drivers make overtime if we’re any later than that, and Les will pop his hair plugs right out when he comes back if we let that happen, so if they’re not in by then, they don’t go.”

“Yes, sir.” I stood and saluted, clicking the heels of my classic black Louboutins together.

“Get to work.” His voice was gruff, but he smiled.

Back at my desk, I flipped my laptop screen up and logged into the PD’s online reports database.

Armed robbery at a fast food joint on Southside. No fatalities, at least. I snatched up the phone and called Aaron, thankful for an easy story to get out of the way.

“You find any moonshine?” he asked when he picked up.

“Empty jars, so far,” I said. “But I see the folks at Burger King on Hull found a guy with a gun last night.”

“Two guys. One white, one black, ski masks, gun. Went in after midnight, ordered the staff to the floor, emptied the registers, and then left.”

I jotted that down. “Anyone get a good description? See a car?”

“The manager said the guys weren’t big. Five-eight to five-ten, a hundred and fifty or so pounds. No hair or eye color noted. They jumped in the back of a nineties sedan. Gray or white, possibly a Honda or Nissan.”

“You have a sketch?” I asked as I wrote.

“Nope. Not enough to go on.”

“We’ll put it in Metro. Maybe someone saw something. Is Crimestoppers offering a reward?”

“The standard one.”

“Thank you. This is an easy write-up, and I needed it today.”

He chuckled. “I had very little to do with that, but you’re welcome.”

“Just try to keep things quiet around here this week, huh? This thing in Tidewater is getting more tangled by the day.”

“You sound like you’re feeling better, anyway,” he said.

“Thank God for small favors.”

I wished him a good week and hung up, rifling through the tea-stained papers on my desktop for the one I’d scrawled the ABC police officer’s phone number on.

I crossed my fingers as I dialed, and smiled when the guy picked up on the first ring. I introduced myself and his voice went from congenial to guarded.

“Aaron White at the Richmond PD will vouch for my trustworthiness if you want to call him,” I said. “I got your number from him, actually.”

“Aaron’s a good guy,” he said. “But it’s his job to talk to reporters. It’s not mine.”

“What if we’re off the record? At least at first?” It wasn’t my preference when dealing with a brand-new source, but I needed an in at the ABC police and he didn’t have any more reason to trust me than I did to trust him.

“About what?”

“I’m working on a story that has ties to moonshiners,” I said. “I would really love to know a little more about how the ABC polices that part of the illegal trade.”

“Very carefully,” he said.

I picked up a pen, not because I wanted to quote him, but because I didn’t want to forget anything.

“Meaning?” I asked.

“Meaning moonshiners are a tricky business. It’s practically a culture unto itself.”

“Are there any active investigations into the manufacture and sale of illegal moonshine?”

“About fifteen, spread from the mountains to the beach and everywhere in between. We busted a group of bachelor businessmen with a still in their basement in Alexandria last year. Trial is coming up on that one, actually.”

“So it’s not just a country thing anymore?”

“Hardly. There are people who make the stuff all over the state. Though there are only a few operations with wide enough distribution for it to warrant our time and money.”

“Any of those pushing the product across state lines?” I asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t comment on that.”

I tapped the pen on my notebook.

“Can you tell me if there’s an open investigation in a little map dot called Mathews out on the bay?” I asked.

He paused. “I’m sorry,” he said. “No comment.”

Which was as good as yes. I put a star by that. I didn’t know if Kyle had a way to find out what they were investigating, but it was worth asking.

After thanking the officer for his time, I hung up.

I fired through the armed robbery story and sent an email to our photo editor requesting a shot of the Burger King to go with it. Parker appeared at my elbow just as I finished proofing the article and got it ready to send to Bob.

“You ready?” he asked. “I want to get there early if we can.”

I clicked send and closed my laptop, smoothing my black tank dress as I stood. “Since I don’t fancy riding to Mathews on the back of your bike in this dress, I assume I’m driving?” I asked.

“I figured,” he said.

I fished my keys out of my bag and turned toward the elevator, almost plowing into Spence.

“Teach her about writing sports on your way, Parker,” he said.

“Lay off, Spence.” Parker shook his head, putting a hand on the small of my back and trying to steer me around Spencer.

“Who plays infield between second and third bases, Clarke?” The words dripped so much sarcasm I was tempted to ask if he needed a napkin for his chin when I turned back.

Parker opened his mouth, but I laid a hand on his arm. “The shortstop,” I said. “For the Generals, it’s Mo Jensen, who hit two-ninety with thirty-five RBIs and only one error last year. Anything else, Mr. Jacobs?”

Spence rolled his eyes and stalked in the direction of Les’s office. I sighed and strode to the elevator, Parker on my heels.

“I guess it might do Shelby some good to have a friend. Maybe she’ll soften,” I said, grinning at him as the doors closed.

He smiled. “I was all set to defend you and instead you shut him up,” he said. “How’d you know that?”

“It was in your baseball preview last month. Things I read get stuck in my brain.”

“Nice.”

I drove to I-64 while Parker fiddled with the radio, a heavy sadness settling in the car.

“I’m sorry, Parker,” I said. “This can’t be easy for you.”

“You can say that again. I’m sad. I’m worried about Tony and Ashton. And I’m pissed off, too,” he said, running a hand over his face.

“At?”

“The cops. The kids. Just in general.”

I paused, stealing glances at his profile. “So, when you went out there the other day,” I said finally. “You were there for a while before you called me. And I know Ashton and Tiffany talked to me, but I’m wondering what they told you.” And if it matched what they told me, but I kept quiet about that.

“I asked them what you told me to,” he said. “About if there were kids who didn’t like TJ.”

“And?”

“Ashton said not really, at first, and then she told me a story about a cheerleader who had a crush on him. Said the girl texted him at all hours and some of the messages were ‘I love you so much’ and others were ‘you prick, why don’t you love me?’”

“They told me about her, too,” I said. “That’s definitely interesting.”

Parker nodded. “You think a teenage girl could do this, though?”