Suspicion of Vengeance (11 page)

"Gail!" She looked around. Jackie was jogging toward them, wearing jeans and a white cowboy hat. Her hair swung at her shoulders.

"Hi. I was about to think you wouldn't make it." Pearl buttons accented her blue denim shirt, and a wild turkey feather decorated her hatband. She put an arm around Gail's waist and spoke to the women selling tickets. "This is my cousin Gail from Miami, and her friend Anthony."

"Well, then, you-all can go in for free."

"No, I'll pay." Jackie bumped Anthony aside with a hip and laid a twenty on the table. The woman waved them through. In a low voice Jackie said, "People are always offering to do me favors. I never say yes. They'd expect me to forget I saw them run a stop sign or something. Why don't you come over for dinner tonight? Or just come over, if you get too stuffed on barbecue this afternoon."

"Oh, I'd love to, but we've already got plans." Gail didn't elaborate. They planned to drop in to talk to the eyewitness, Dorothy Chastain, at five o'clock. "Is your dad here?"

"He was, but he got a phone call. I think he'll be back."

Jackie pointed things out. A picnic tent with tables and chairs, another for food, a third with crafts for sale: quilts, wood carvings, toys, fishing lures. The band played country music from a stage erected near the tin-roofed, concrete block building that Jackie called a barn.

Gail doubted that Anthony had any more of an appetite than she did; room service had brought lunch. She put a hand on his shoulder. "Anthony, would you find us something to drink?" A hint to leave them alone for a minute. She smiled at him.

He smiled back, then asked Jackie what she wanted. "Nothing for me, thanks." He walked into the crowd. Gail saw a couple of women stare at him. He was worth looking at: the way he moved; the dark hair that waved back from his forehead; the full mouth. He wore three rings, a gold bracelet, and a lizard-strap watch. The white shirt, rolled casually to the elbow, had been purchased at the Prada store in New York.

"What a babe," Jackie said. "Are you guys reengaged yet?"

"He's trying to wear down my resistance," Gail said.

"I wouldn't have any."

"Who are you going out with?"

"Nobody, really. Well, this guy in fire-rescue, but"— she grinned—"the man can put out fires, he just can't light them."

Gail hugged Jackie's arm. "I wish you'd come to Miami. We'd have a good time."

"Maybe I will. I've got some vacation days coming."

"Listen," Gail said, "there's this case I'm working on—"

But Jackie's attention had been drawn to the stage. The band had stopped, and two of the members were carefully hoisting an old man up the steps by his elbows. Gail shaded her eyes. "Oh, my God. Is that Diddy?"

"Sure is. Still kicking. He sold the place about five years ago, but he loves to come out here and play cowboy."

Diddy Bryce put his harmonica to his lips and reedy notes came out in a lively tune. A guitar and banjo played backup. From time to time the old man stopped to shout instructions to what Gail finally realized was an imaginary dog chasing a fox.

"Git 'im! Cut 'im off!" More reedy notes on the harmonica, then another shout, "In the woods!" The banjo player stepped forward to do a solo, and Diddy Bryce's toe tapped as he played along. "Git 'im! Go'n, boy!" He stopped abruptly, grinning and pointing upward. "Treed 'im!"

The audience laughed and applauded.

Diddy held on to the microphone. "Used to be all kinds of wildlife in them woods yonder. Foxes and bear and coons and wildcats. Gators too. We still got gators in the ponds and canals, so watch out when you go skinny-dippin'." The crowd laughed. "Back when my pa was a young man, 'fore there was fences, he run about two hunnerd head of cattle free-range, and he'd round 'em up with cattle dogs. They had their dogs and their bull whips. My arm ain't so good anymore, but here's my sidekick, Rusty Beck, to show you how it's done."

While Diddy talked, volunteers had been moving the crowd back from the stage, and two boys had dashed around setting empty soda cans on the ground. A chestnut horse trotted into the clearing. The rider kept his fist tight on the reins, and the horse pivoted, kicking up dust. The man threw a leg over the pommel and slid off.

Rusty Beck carried a leather bullwhip and a knife in a sheath on his belt. Sleeves rolled past his biceps showed off hard, ropy muscles and a tattoo of an eagle on his right arm. His hair was tied back in a graying ponytail, and the sun picked up the red in his goatee and mustache. A hat with a silver band shaded his eyes.

Gail stood on tiptoes to try to locate Anthony in the crowd, hoping he could see this. When the boys had led the horse away, the man made a quick movement like throwing a ball overhanded. The whip uncoiled with the crack of a rifle shot. Walking in a slow circle, his arm moving rhythmically, he snapped the long whip to left and right. The crowd moved back. He turned quickly and one of the soda cans leaped up in a puff of dust. Sharpened steel glinted at the tip of the bullwhip. The dented can fell back and spun. The man sent another one flying, and as it descended, he cut it wide open. He worked his way across the open ground, his steps accompanied by loud cracks. Cans jumped and clattered.

Gail spotted Anthony shouldering his way slowly through the crowd, smiling his apologies. Taking a shortcut, he appeared at the edge of the clearing with two large paper cups. The bullwhip cracked over his head, and he froze.

A line of small explosions cut off Anthony's path. People moved back, laughing in alarm. Anthony turned slowly to face the man with the whip and stared at him through his sunglasses. Dirt leaped up within a few inches of his polished shoes, and grit dusted his pleated trousers.

Gail grabbed Jackie's arm. "He's going to get hurt."

"No, he won't, but it's rude." Jackie yelled, "Rusty, stop showing off!"

Laughing, the man turned his back, and the long whip came down on another soda can. Anthony stood still for a moment, then stepped away. The crowd applauded, but his lips were pressed too tightly to return their smiles. Reaching Gail, he gave her one of the cups.

Jackie looked toward the stage. The man was getting back on his horse. "He always does that, and usually it's one of his friends in on the joke. I'm sorry it was you."

Anthony made a slight shrug. "Who is he?"

"Russell Beck—Rusty. This is his property. He's the one who bought Diddy out. I should tell him to watch his manners."

The band was playing again. Anthony nodded toward the pine trees at the other end of the barn. "Let's stand over there." As they walked, the noise diminished. "There's a sign by the food tent. The catering has been donated by the JWM Corporation. That stands for J. Whitney McGrath, no?"

"That's right, but everybody calls him Whit."

"You know him?" Gail asked.

"We say hello. He keeps a couple of horses in the barn. Rusty looks after them."

Jackie caught the glance that Gail and Anthony exchanged. "Why'd you ask about Whit McGrath?"

Gail explained. "His name showed up on a murder investigation in Palm City twelve years ago. I'm representing the man who was convicted of the crime, Kenneth Ray Clark. His grandmother is Ruby Smith. She used to babysit for us. Do you remember her?"

Jackie slowly shook her head. "Not really."

"Well, Ruby asked me to help Kenny Ray. He's been on death row for eleven years. The victim was Amber Dodson. Her name might be familiar. She was twenty-four, married, stabbed to death in her own house. Her baby died of accidental suffocation."

"Right, right. It's an old case. The guy who killed her was a local, a laborer or something. And you're his lawyer?"

"I'm going to file an appeal. I believe he's innocent. This morning we talked to a woman named Tina Hop-wood. She could have given Kenny Clark an alibi, but the lead detective threatened to have her probation revoked if she testified. The case was handled by the sheriff's department. Jackie, I wanted to let you know up front because technically it puts me and Garlan on opposite sides."

"Who was the detective?" Jackie asked.

"Ronald Kemp."

"I've met him." Her brown eyes revealed nothing else. If she had an opinion of Kemp, she wasn't sharing it. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because I need help locating someone. I thought that since you're with the Stuart PD, you might know. But don't, if you'd rather not."

"Who is he?"

"Vernon Byrd. He's also a jailhouse snitch. He said my client confessed. I think he was lying."

"I know Vernon," said Jackie. "He's about six two, three hundred pounds. His street name is Peanut. We busted him last month for disorderly intox. It took four officers to get him cuffed. He hangs out at the Cherokee Lounge, sort of a bouncer. I could get a home address for you."

"Wonderful. Are you sure it's all right?"

"What do you mean?"

"All right with Garlan."

"I don't see a problem. If you've got questions about procedure or need an address, something like that, I could help you. But I can't go behind anyone's back or give out information you're not entitled to."

"No, of course not," Gail said.

"So you really think your guy didn't do it?"

"That's what we think, but we can't prove it yet. There was an eyewitness, a woman who lived across the street from the Dodsons. She saw a man fitting my client's general description in their yard, but we think she was wrong. I'm going to talk to her about it later today."

Jackie hooked her thumbs in the back pockets of her jeans. She was a couple of inches taller than average, and her body gave the impression of quick, agile strength. "This is good stuf£ I don't get to investigate homicides. Most of my work is fairly routine, you know, being on road patrol." She rocked on her boot heels. "Are you sure it was a break-in? I guess they looked at the husband."

"He was the first suspect," Anthony said. "He's a lawyer, Gary Dodson. He sold the house, but he still practices in Stuart. Do you know him?"

"Only the name. He runs ads in the newspaper. Cheap divorces and wills and things like that. Were he and his wife having problems?"

"His alibi checked out," Gail said. "He was at work by nine o'clock, and Amber died between ten and two."

"Only if you believe the medical examiner," Anthony said. "Time of death isn't that reliable. In fact,
querida,
you should let an independent forensic pathologist look at the ME's notes."

"You still think Amber's husband did it, don't you?"

"I think he's the most logical choice. Well? Do you want me to talk to a pathologist? I have one in mind. I would trust his opinion."

Gail wondered how much it would cost, then decided it didn't matter. "All right, fine."

"That's not a bad idea," Jackie said. "I went to a seminar on homicide investigation, and one of the speakers was this FBI expert who said it's useless to talk about time of death. There are so many factors that can throw you off. Body weight, air temperature, blood loss, even whether the person had been exercising."

"Exactly so," said Anthony.

The hat made a shadow across Jackie's face. Under the brim her eyes turned to Gail. "What was it you were saying about your client's alibi witness? The police threatened her?"

Gail said, "Kenny was renting a room in Tina Hop-wood's trailer. She could have gone on the stand and contradicted the eyewitness, but she didn't. She told us that Detective Kemp accused her of lying and said he would 'discover' drugs in her house if she gave Kenny Clark an alibi, so Tina kept her mouth shut. She couldn't go to jail. She had two kids to support. She's coming forward now because ... well, I suppose you could say it's a guilty conscience."

"Okay. So who was the guy in the yard? Did the victim have a boyfriend?"

"Who knows? According to one of her coworkers, she wasn't getting much from her husband."

"Were there any other suspects?"

"Amber's sister was on the list for a while. Lacey Mayfield. Do you know the name?"

"Sure. She works at Mayfield Antiques on Flagler Avenue in the old downtown. The Mayfields have owned it for years."

"Lacey came by Amber's house early that morning, but she was asleep, so Lacey left and went to work. She was there the rest of the day except for about forty minutes when she went to lunch. Supposedly."

Jackie looked past Gail and called out to someone. "Hey, Dad. You missed most of the party."

Garlan Bryce was heading in their direction. He wore boots and jeans, the attire of the day. The weight of fifty-five years had slackened the skin on his jaw and put pouches under his eyes. He was a little grayer, a little heavier, but no less solid.

He nodded at them. "Gail. It's been a while."

"Hello, Garlan." His cool manner unsettled her, but she calmly introduced him to Anthony. There were polite handshakes.

"Got a minute? There's something I'd like to discuss." He looked at his daughter. "You come too." Without waiting for a reply, Bryce walked over and moved one of the sawhorses that barred the wide entrance to the barn. Anthony took Gail's cup and tossed it and his into a trash barrel. She sent him an inquiring look, and he shrugged.

They followed the sheriff into what could have once been a storage room. Scraps of lumber and metal were strewn about. Light came weakly through dirty, web-draped windows. Jackie appeared unsure what was going on.

Garlan Bryce closed the door. His gray eyes fixed on Gail. "I'll get to the point. An elderly lady by the name of Dorothy Chastain called the office a little while ago. She said a lawyer from Miami was going to come to her house and question her about the Clark trial. This lawyer wanted her to sign an affidavit. Mrs. Chastain wasn't sure if she should. I was just over there. I told her she didn't have to talk to anybody."

The sheriff turned his head toward his daughter. "Did you know about this?"

"No, sir. Well, some of it. We were talking when you arrived."

Gail was about to explain but Anthony was quicker. "Ms. Connor and I are reinvestigating the Clark case. With all due respect, sheriff, the police have no right to interfere."