Текст книги "Death In Dahlonega"

Автор книги: Deborah Malone

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 9 страниц)

Chapter Six

Before I could tell Dee Dee my plan, Joyce hurried back to our table and sat down. I heard Dee Dee groan, and I kicked her under the table, sure that Joyce had heard her. Now that I had gone into information collecting mode, I didn’t want to discourage the innkeeper, but once again she was oblivious to anything but herself and began to talk as though she’d never stopped.

“As I was saying, he did a lot of things to help the community. Not everyone liked him, but Mr. Tatum always pitched in if the need arose.” Joyce waved to an older couple across the room and hollered out a hardy ‘hello.’ “He could be overpowering when he exerted his authority and that rankled some feathers.”

My ears perked up like a coon dog on a scent. “Are you saying he made enemies around town?”

“I guess you could say that. He was known for using strong-armed tactics to get what he wanted.” Joyce started stacking plates and swiped up several empty jam and sugar packets. “As you experienced first-hand, he had the personality of Attila the Hun. I suppose you could say he had a heart of gold and a fist of steel. Nonetheless, I felt sorry for him. He was going through some hard times.” Her tone didn’t match her words. I wondered if she really felt sympathy for him.

Dee Dee and I looked at each other, her brows rose and fell. I felt pretty sure we thought the same thing. It was possible that several of the town’s folk wanted John Tatum dead.

“What bad things?” I watched Joyce clatter a cup full of silverware and restack the plates, and tried again. “What had he been going through?”

“His father, John senior, died about six months ago.” She kept moving the plates from one place to another. “He was patriarch of the family business. After his death, everything was left to John—including all the problems his father left behind.

“And it’s common knowledge he’s recently gone through a nasty divorce.” Joyce lifted, dropped her shoulders with a sigh. “His ex-wife, Miranda, made sure everyone knew. Anyway, Miranda found out he’d been messing around with his secretary. He was gone from their house faster than he could say, ‘I’m sorry.’

“You go girl!” I shoved a fist in the air for emphasis.

Joyce looked at me, eyes wide with surprise. Dee Dee, however, just shot a knowing look to my pain. I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud my thoughts. Heat warmed my cheeks. “Uh, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“Honey, you just voiced what I was thinking.” Dee Dee squeezed my arm.

Dee Dee, no stranger to loss, stood by my side as staunch supporter and friend this past year during my own divorce. When her husband, Gary, died suddenly after an undiagnosed heart problem several years ago, Dee Dee’s enduring faith through the tough times, as well as the good, set an example for me to follow.

To lighten the mood, Dee Dee asked Joyce, “What happened after she turned the two-timing, low-down, scum-sucking, no-good son of a snake out of the house?”

I choked on a mouthful of lukewarm coffee. Joyce’s startled gaze darted between me and Dee Dee. I laughed out loud. “Well, Dee Dee, why don’t you tell us how you really feel.”

“I just did.”

Joyce finally laughed and patted Dee Dee’s arm. “Miranda went for where it hurt the most—the wallet. I heard it got nasty in court. Miranda’s attorney exposed all of John’s indiscretions. A woman judge sat on the bench that day, and she made John pay through the nose.” Joyce shook her head as she spoke, her bob bouncing back and forth.

“How did you learn about the court proceedings?” Dee Dee asked.

“We’re a small town. Everybody knows somebody who knows somebody, and news travels faster than butter on a hot biscuit.” Joyce wiped the crumbs off the table and smoothed the tablecloth. “Miranda is president of the Historical Society. I was at the meeting where she spent the majority of the time enlightening the members of John’s affair. She was mad as a wet setting hen!” Joyce had a faraway look and her shoulders shuddered.

I couldn’t blame Miranda. Being betrayed by the one person in life you trusted, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was devastating.

Joyce voiced my sentiments. “Yeah, but you can’t blame her. I’d be mad, too.” She stood and gathered the stacked dishes, cups, and utensils. “Time to go see about my customers; got to keep them happy. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Joyce!” I Columbo’ed her and smiled as she turned around. “One more thing. Where can we get in touch with Miranda? I might want to interview her for my magazine article since she’s in the Historical Society.”

“She owns an antique shop on the square, The Antique Boutique. She works most of the day. She’ll probably be busy today though, it being Gold Rush Days and all.” And with that, she hurried off to take care of business.

Dee Dee shot a shark-toothed grin. “Are you really going to interview Miranda for your article, Trixie?”

“Sure, why not? And while I’m interviewing her I might happen to ask her a few questions about her ex-husband. I’d say she had a motive for murder. Since I’ve found out about Wayne, there’s been more than one occasion I dreamed of doing bodily harm to that two-timing cheater.”

My poor heart ached talking about it. I quickly prayed for forgiveness for such angry thoughts. I’d begun to recover, but was still in the healing process. Band-aids of hurried prayers and half-hearted pep-talks held my fragile heart together.

What if John’s ex-wife had taken her red-hot anger and humiliation to the extreme and acted out those feelings? It was possible.

Dee Dee’s expression softened. She put her arm around my waist. “Trix, you know it’s all right to have thoughts and feelings that aren’t in our best interest. It’s what we choose to do with those emotions that can get us in trouble. Why, I don’t know how many times I’ve said, ‘If Gary hadn’t died, I’d have killed him for making me a widow.’” She gave me a squeeze as I wiped a tear from my cheek.

I’d just blown my nose when Sheriff Wheeler sauntered up with his sidekick, Deputy Ray. I stashed the Kleenex in my pants pocket.

“Good morning, ladies.” The sheriff touched the tip of his hat, like any good southern gentleman’s mama taught him to do. “I hope you slept well last night.”

His Cheshire-cat grin stepped on my last nerve. “Well, of course we didn’t sleep well, Sheriff. My friend did find a dead body yesterday.” Like, I needed to remind him.

He shot me a wickedly handsome smile. “You’re right, Ms. Montgomery—may I call you Trixie?” I nodded, and he continued. “Both of you experienced a traumatic affair. Maybe this job has left me a little too jaded. Please accept my apologies.”

I nodded at his honey covered words, and felt the hard shell of my resistance begin to melt.

“We do accept your apologies, Sheriff.” Dee Dee pushed me aside. “And you can call me, Dee Dee.” She giggled like a schoolgirl and offered her hand. As they shook, the bangles on her wrist played a jaunty, chinging melody. “I reckon that means we can call you Jake.”

He didn’t answer. I guess not.

Sheriff Wheeler turned and gestured towards a man dressed in a Sunday go-to-meeting suit. “Let me introduce Agent Jeff Cornwall from the Georgia Bureau of Investigations. Any time there’s a crime on state property, the GBI is called in to perform an investigation.”

Agent Cornwall, light pole thin, loomed over Sheriff Wheeler. I had a mental picture of the agent as Abe Lincoln on stilts and almost burst out laughing. I quickly covered my mouth to hide my mirth. I could tell my nerves were frayed like an old electric wire.

“We’ve questioned several witnesses present in the lobby yesterday when Dee Dee had the unfortunate confrontation with John Tatum. There might be more to it than she suggested.” The sheriff looked directly into Dee Dee’s eyes. “We’d like for you to come down to the station so we can question you further.”

Dee Dee’s nostrils flared. “If I’d’a known you intended to arrest me, I sure wouldn’t have accepted your apology much less shake your hand.” Her flirtatious smile gone, she shot him a scathing look.

“I’m not going to arrest you. I just want to ask you a few more questions. This shouldn’t take long,” Sheriff Wheeler said. “We’re going back to the office, why don’t you ride with us.” Then, turning those baby blues towards me, he asked, “Why don’t you come by in an hour or so? We should be through by then.”

I offered him the sweetest smile. “Of course I will.” I addressed Dee Dee. “Just call me on my cell when you’re done, and I’ll come in a jiffy.” I avoided eye contact with the sheriff. I gave Dee Dee a quick hug and hoped she didn’t see the tears pooling in my eyes.

“All right,” he addressed the two men standing beside him. “Let’s get on our way.”

Agent Cornwall, Deputy Ray, Sherriff Wheeler, and a forlorn looking Dee Dee traipsed out of the dining room with tourists looking on. I couldn’t shake the notion that Dee Dee looked like a lamb being led to slaughter.

Chapter Seven

I returned to the stifling air of our tiny room. The walls seemed to close in on me. My mind tripped to the time I wandered away from my parents in Redford’s Five and Dime. I had never been so glad to see my Mama when she found me. Feeling like that same lost child, I pulled my cell phone from my purse and dialed her up.

“Mama, I’m so glad you’re at home.” Mama’s an angel on earth. She possessed the patience of Job, the strength of Samson, and the faith of Abraham. She had to, being the sole caregiver for Nana, her strong-willed, quirky aunt.

“Trixie, what is it? Are you okay?” Mama must have heard the strain in my voice.

“Yes and no. We’ve run into a little trouble.” I wondered how much I should tell her. “There was a murder yesterday at the Gold Museum.” At Mama’s sharp intake of breath, I continued. “We were watching a film on gold mining when Dee Dee went to the bathroom. She found the body.” My bottom lip quivered.

Mama gasped. “Oh my goodness, how horrible! How’s she doing?”

“She’s doing fine, Mama.” I didn’t want her to worry any more than necessary. “They took her to the sheriff’s department to ask her a few questions. I think it’s only a formality.” Please forgive me for stretching the truth. I prayed it was true as a sick thread of worry for Dee Dee wove through my stomach.

“Do you need me to do anything?” Mama asked.

In my mind’s eye, I could see the worry etched on her face.

“No Mama, but I’ll let you know if I do. How are things at home? Is Nana behaving?” I asked, knowing good and well she was probably giving Mama a hard time, her quirky behavior a cover up for getting away with her antics. I’d seen some of Nana’s mischief first hand when Mama had offered me a place to stay after the divorce. Wade had made so many bad investments we lost everything, including our house.

A hearty laugh came through the phone. “If you call Nana inviting Beau to come over for dinner behaving—then yes, she’s behaving.”

“What? She’s been trying to marry me off to him since the third grade.” I had to laugh, too, thinking of the countless times she’d tried to set us up. I’ve told her up and down I was done with men, but she never listened.

Mama and I had learned it was easier to laugh at Nana’s meddling. We’d discovered too many times the alternative was to cry.

“Thanks, Mama, I appreciate it. I’ve got to go, but I’ll call you back later.”

“Please keep me updated, and don’t worry. Nana and I will take care of Bouncer. She loves your dog.” Images of Nana in her nightgown, coming to my rescue, popped in my mind. A forewarning?

“By the way, Jill called, and she’s doing fine. She’s looking forward to winter break.” Jill, my daughter, was and a junior at the University of Georgia.

“Mama, if she calls again please don’t mention the murder. It’ll just upset her.”

We talked a few more minutes and said our good-byes. “Sweetheart, please be careful. We love you,” she said, her voice full of concern.

“Okay, Mama, I’ll be careful. I love you and Nana, too.” I disconnected the call.

I rummaged around and found a tablet and pen. I needed to make a list of questions to be answered in order to help Dee Dee. I needed a place to start.

1. Who had a reason to kill John Tatum?

2. Why would they want him dead?

3. How did they know where he was going to be?

After I made my list, I wandered to the bathroom to clean my face. The pasty reflection in the mirror shocked me. I’d arrived feeling like a forty-something diva, and now looked like a tired, red-eyed woman. I reapplied my make-up for damage control and left to pick up Dee Dee.

Chapter Eight

The morning sun illuminated the red, yellow, and orange leaves. I looked up through the colorful foliage to see a robin egg blue sky, and smiled at the high definition day for the merchants as well as the tourists.

I decided to drive to the sheriff’s department. I didn’t trust my knee to hold up for the long trek. When my car started on the first turn of the ignition, I heaved a huge sigh of relief. It had been hit or miss lately.

The town square was closed to traffic. Following the directions I’d been given, I drove the back roads. The red brick building was newer than its neighbors, but a talented architect had designed it to blend in with the older historic buildings.

I entered the front door into a sparsely furnished lobby. A uniformed young woman, who manned the front desk, was so intent on something she didn’t notice me until I cleared my throat. She looked up with wide eyes and slid a gossip magazine underneath a folder. “May I help you?”

“Yes, I’m Trixie Montgomery, and I’m here to pick up my friend Dee Dee Lamont.” I looked around the lobby. No Dee Dee.

“Oh, yes, Ms. Montgomery. The sheriff told me when you came by to inform you that the interview is taking a little longer than expected. He asked if you could come back in an hour or so. They should be finished by then.” The blonde young woman, smacking a wad of gum, looked like she should be sitting behind a desk in high school.

What choice did I have? “Sure, I’ll be back to pick her up.” I turned and left her to finish reading about Justin Bieber.

Outside, tourists roamed the busy streets. An older couple, decked out in matching coral shirts, wore worn faces and kind smiles. A young mother held the hand of a rambunctious toddler as she maneuvered a baby stroller over the curbs and through the maze of excited people. Children of all ages lined up at the candy apple booth. They were carefree and oblivious to the trouble Dee Dee and I faced.

Why did the sheriff have his suspicions focused on Dee Dee? According to Joyce, more than one person had a stronger motive to kill Tatum. I knew I had made the right decision to help my friend. She would do no less for me.

My sore knee throbbed. I strolled to the car to retrieve my trusty cane. While there, I decided to face the inevitable and call Harv, my editor. A sweet voice answered the phone. “Good morning, Georgia By the Way. This is Belinda. May I help you?”

Lord, please don’t let him be in the office. I had no idea how Harv would react to our circumstances. I didn’t want to know.

“Hi Belinda. This is Trixie.” I fiddled with a string hanging from my shirtsleeve.

“Oh, hi, Trixie. You still in Dahlonega? Do you want to speak to Harv?”

Obviously, my prayer hadn’t reached its destination in time.

“Uh, what kind of mood is he in?” Harv had a heart of gold, but could be quick tempered.

“Well, he’s a little jumpy this morning. But I’m sure he’s feeling much better since he’s had his black coffee and jelly doughnuts. Do you want me to put you through?”

“Sure, thanks.” I watched the flow of tourists as I waited on Harv.

“I thought you’d never call,” Harv’s voice blasted across the line. “What’s going on? Are you making progress on the article?” I could imagine Harv sitting at his desk, phone in one hand and a Tootsie Pop in the other. He’d made the switch from cigars after the scare with his heart.

“Uh, yes and no, Harv,” I said with trepidation in my belly.

“What kind of answer is that?” Harv barked. “Have you or haven’t you?”

“We’ve run into a little snag.” I gave a nervous pull on the hanging thread, and the hem of my sleeve raveled.

“Spit it out. I don’t have all day to yap on the phone. What kind of snag?” I could hear him crunch down. Probably cherry red, his favorite.

While he chewed, I brought Harv up to speed, from the lobby exchange, to the gold museum movie and Dee Dee’s bathroom wandering, finishing with her standing over the bloody corpse.

This was my last assignment before my six-month probation period was over. John Tatum’s murder case could result in the demise of my job. Harv could kick me out on my keister faster than a racehorse springing from a starting gate.

The silence on the other end of the phone was deafening.

Chapter Nine

A roaring boom broke the silence and I jerked the phone from my ear. “Montgomery! What have you gotten yourself into?”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Instead of being angry, he actually sounded happy. And then, in his usual fashion, he turned disaster into, “a story that could net us the Georgia Magazine of the Year Award.”

I got out pencil and paper to take notes while Harv barked new orders. “Trixie, you need to research murders that occurred during the original gold rush days. And find out what you can about this Tatum character. We’ll run this as a feature. ‘Gold Rush Days Turn Deadly,’” he tried out a headline, a fresh tootsie paper crackling in the background. “Maybe we could devote the entire issue to Dahlonega if you can pull this off.”

This definitely meant more work. I had my hands full now with the articles and helping Dee Dee. My heart pounded at the assignment. “I’ll do what I can.” My voice squeaked. “I mean, I’ll get the facts, boss!”

The line went dead. He’d hung up on me, leaving me with the task of dredging up old murders.

I exited the car, shoved my cell phone into my pant’s pocket, and grasped my cane tight. It fit secure in my palm, like holding on to an old friend.

The streets boasted an assortment of people coming and going. The blending of colorful clothes reminded me of a patchwork quilt. The clippity-clop of horse’s hooves prompted me to turn in time to see a horse drawn carriage coming down the street. Smiles and squeals of excitement escaped from young children in the carriage.

I stopped a woman towing a child busy with an ice cream cone, and asked her where The Antique Boutique was located. I was more than embarrassed when she said, “Right behind you, sweetie.” She offered me a smile and bent down to wipe her toddler’s chocolate-covered face.

A bell jangled my arrival into the musty shop. Once inside, country charm surrounded me. Reconditioned antique furniture was jammed into every nook and cranny. Handmade wood furniture, from bedposts to birdhouses, filled the right corner of the shop. An attached sign revealed a local man had carved the unique pieces.

“Hi. May I help you?” I turned to see a beautiful woman smiling at me. Her skin reminded me of evaporated milk—creamy but not white. I’d be willing to wager the family farm she’d never been plagued by teenage acne! Dark blonde hair and a figure to kill for completed the look.

“Um, yes. I’m looking for Miranda Tatum,” I stammered.

“That’s me. Are you looking for something special?” She took a rag tucked in her belt and polished the top of a table.

“I love this homemade furniture,” I gushed, running a hand over the smoothed arm of a rocking chair.

“It’s become one of our best sellers. People are fascinated with anything homemade. They can’t get enough of it. This is a great weekend for sales.”

I thought I could see dollar signs in her big green eyes.

“I believe you’re right, but I didn’t come to buy anything. I want to know if I can interview you. Joyce Johnston at the Dahlonega Inn told me you’re president of the Historical Society.”

I looked at the table she’d been polishing and was surprised to see my reflection.

“Yes, I am,” she said. “But this isn’t a good time. As you can see, it’s already hectic.” She smiled politely, but turned to walk away.

“It won’t take long, I promise. I’m writing a story on Gold Rush Days and want to feature The Antique Boutique.” I hurriedly continued. “My name is Trixie Montgomery, and I write for Georgia By the Way.

Her face lit up with instant recognition and her attitude changed faster than a chameleon’s colors. “Follow me and we’ll go somewhere we can talk undisturbed. Let me tell Katy, my assistant, and I’ll be right with you.” She tucked the polishing cloth back into her belt and disappeared through a door marked “Employees Only.”

I plopped in a rocker to ease the pain in my leg. Relief washed a cool wave over my throbbing knee. Rocking back and forth it occurred to me she didn’t seem upset her ex-husband was dead.

“Let’s go back to my office.” Miranda interrupted my thoughts. She led the way, careening through a maze of furniture.

Her so-called office could easily pass for a closet. I felt sure it had been one at one time.

I started with questions concerning her business, and moved on to her position with the Historical Society. I took notes and recorded our conversation.

Time passed quickly. I needed to pick up Dee Dee shortly, and I hadn’t even addressed John Tatum, so I charged ahead like a bull in a daisy patch.

“Thanks so much for your time today, Miranda.” I smiled, closing my little book. “I’m sorry to hear of your husband’s death.”

Her angelic smile faded. “My ex-husband.” She stood up and bee-lined for the door. “I don’t see what this has to do with your article.”

Think fast Trixie. “Joyce mentioned it when she told me about your antique business. That the man who was murdered yesterday was your ex-husband.” I wouldn’t make the mistake of saying “husband” again.

She froze, her hand on the knob.

“I have an ex-husband, too. By the sound of it, I’d guess we have some things in common. My husband and I were married twenty years before he decided to trade me in for a newer model. As far as I’m concerned, he blew his chances of ever repairing our relationship—not that he ever tried.”

She jerked the door back; the little bell almost flew off, tinkling angrily.

Before I stepped out, I couldn’t help myself and climbed out on a limb. “Uh, is that what John Tatum did to you?”

I’ll swanny, I saw smoke come from her ears. Her pretty face scrunched up and she balled her fists. At that moment, I imagined that Miranda Tatum was capable of murder in the first degree.