Deadly Catch (11 page)

Kate stared out toward the gulf for a moment, her brow furrowed. “But Sara said they made up the dang story about going to the mountains.” She turned back to face me. “I don’t get it, Mac.”

“Join the crowd,” I said, refilling my mug. “How much did you know about Maddie and Brett—as a couple, I mean.”

“They were in love, I’m sure of that. Brett would never hurt her.”

“Yeah, but what did they do together; where did they like to spend their time, who did they run with?”

Kate sighed and rubbed her brow. “Brett worked a lot, running one of the Barfield boats. When he had time off he and Maddie would go four-wheeling, boating, hanging out on the beach. I told you they were the outdoorsy type. Oh, and they went camping a lot. Brett had this favorite place on some lake up in the national forest. Maddie used to talk about how remote and beautiful it was up there.”

I had a swig of beer and took another deep breath. “Don’t take this wrong, but do you think Maddie might’ve been involved with drugs? Marijuana?”

Her eyes narrowed. “No, absolutely not. Why on earth would you even think that?”

“Because Brett was busted for possession. Twice.” I didn’t mention Maddie’s autopsy results.

Kate wasn’t aware of Brett Barfield’s run-in with the law. It had happened before she moved to St. George, and neither Maddie nor anyone else had ever volunteered the information to her. Sara hadn’t confided to anyone but Kate about the ruse of Maddie and Brett honeymooning along the Appalachian Trail. Kate agreed when I asked her to have a heart-to-heart talk with Sara and urge her not to share that information with anyone else for the time being, not even her parents. I also wanted more info on Brett and Maddie’s favorite spot in the Apalachicola National Forest. I had a hunch there might just be something there worth looking into. I didn’t say that to Kate, but I did ask her to find out all she could about the exact location.

Meanwhile, I decided to take Bo Pickron up on his offer to deputize me. I didn’t trust the man any farther than I could throw him, but he seemed willing enough to share information about the case, and if I did run into trouble snooping around, I’d at least have a legal leg to stand on, even if I considered it a shaky one.

The discovery of Brett Barfield’s truck in north Georgia was headlined in Tuesday’s edition of the
Parkersville Independent
. Brett and Maddie’s photos were there too, the same ones the
Independent
had run with the story after her body had been identified. I read the article but found little more info than what Pickron had told me the day before: no body found, a search was in progress in the area the truck was discovered by hikers, Brett was still considered a person of interest in the death of Madison Lynn Harper, yadda yadda yadda.

I poured myself another cup of coffee and started to turn to the sports section when something caught my eye. I glanced at the photos again. Both were your normal senior yearbook poses, but there was something vaguely familiar about Brett’s photo that I hadn’t noticed earlier. I stared and wracked my brain for a couple of minutes, but I couldn’t come up with anything.

After breakfast I called Sheriff Bocephus Pickron, and by two-thirty that afternoon I was a voluntary sworn deputy of temporary tenure. Like Pickron said before, I’d be working undercover on my own and reporting only to him. No badge or identification of any kind to document my status, so I was at Pickron’s mercy there. No one else was to know about our little arrangement. I’d already told Kate that Pickron wanted me to help him look into the case, but I hadn’t mentioned anything about being deputized, so I hadn’t really broken my word to the sheriff. Because I still didn’t trust the guy, I decided to keep quiet about the info Sara had spilled to Kate, at least for the time being.

I was on my way back to St. George wondering what my first official move would be when one of Mayor Harper’s annoying real estate billboards caught my eye:
Buying? Selling? Renting? See Friendly George for all your real estate needs!

Friendly George Harper, real estate magnate and mayor of St. George, his wide, gleaming grin, square jaw, and cleft chin plastered all over the county. Then it hit me. I gunned the accelerator and sped home.

I grabbed the newspaper from the recycle stack by the garbage bin and stared at Brett Barfield’s photo. The resemblance was remarkable: the same deep-set eyes and square jaw line, but the cleft chin was the ringer. The only mismatch was complexion and hair color: George Harper was blondish and ruddy; Brett Barfield dark-haired and olive. I flipped open my phone and dialed the marina. Kate answered.

“Hey, it’s Mac. Do you know if the Barfields and Harpers are related in any way? Cousins, maybe?”

There was a short pause. “No, not that I’m aware of. Why would you want to know that?”

“Just a hunch. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“I can ask the Gillmans, or Sara when she comes in.”

“Yeah, I’d appreciate it if you’d ask Sara when you get the chance. But tell her to keep it between you two, okay?”

After we hung up I looked around and found the phonebook someone had left on my trailer steps a couple of weeks back. I thumbed through the white pages and found the H’s. There were about a dozen Harpers listed, and George Herman Harper was among them. I suppose it’s only proper for a realtor and the mayor of a city to have a listed home telephone number. George Herman? I dialed the number, wondering if his father or grandfather had been a Babe Ruth fan.

Someone picked up after the fourth ring, and a weary female voice said, “Hello.” From what I’d seen and heard at Maddie’s funeral, I guessed it was Marilyn Harper.

“Hi, my name’s Mac McClellan. Is this the mayor’s residence?” I knew it was, but it never hurts to show a bit of courtesy.

“Yes, this is his wife.” She sounded a bit slurred. “The mayor’s not in at the moment. Did you say your name is McClellan?”

“Yes, ma’am, Mac McClellan. I’m the man who found your niece,” I said, never feeling more awkward in my life. “I was wondering if I might have a word with you sometime, at your convenience, of course.”

There was a pause, and then the sound of sniffling and clinking glass in the background. “What about, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Fair enough. I did some quick thinking. “I’m deeply sorry about Madison, Mrs. Harper. I have a son and daughter around her age, and I can’t imagine what you must be going through. I’m hoping to find out what happened to your niece, and why.” It was the truth, and if Bo Pickron had a problem with me talking to his sister, we’d have to work it out later.

“Brett Barfield, that
bastard!
” she spit out. “That’s who killed my poor Maddie!”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, to placate her, “it looks that way. But we do want to be sure. Could we meet somewhere? I have some questions I’d like to ask you.”

There was another pause and tinkling of glass, then a hissed “
Goddammit!
”

“Mrs. Harper?”

“Fine, Mr. McClellan, we’ll talk. I have a few questions for you, too. I’m not an early riser. Can you be here, say, two-ish tomorrow?”

“Two’s good. Thank you, ma’am.”

So, my first official act as a deputized lawman was scheduled. I had a lot of thinking to do about how I would approach Marilyn Harper, and just what I was going to ask her. One thing she’d said during our conversation kept playing over and over in my mind: “Brett Barfield, that
bastard!
”

For some reason, it seemed to fit.

I don’t remember how the subject came up, but not long after I’d rented the boat from Gillman’s Marina, Lamar told me that the mayor of St. George lived “high on the hog.” Lamar wasn’t exaggerating. By the time I drove through the stone and wrought iron gateway of the Harper residence north of town, I’d already passed nearly a mile of white wooden fencing fronting the Harper property, the kind you see at top-notch horse ranches. The two-lane asphalt driveway curved through acres of manicured grass shaded by towering pines and sprawling live oaks. I half-expected to find the Tara plantation when I reached the house, and I wasn’t far off the mark.

The driveway ended in a wide concrete circle. In the middle of the circle stood a huge fountain with a pair of leaping dolphins spitting water back into the pool. The house wasn’t exactly Tara, but throw in some tall columns and a few Southern belles wearing hoop dresses, and you’d be close. I drove halfway around the circle and parked near the edge of the concrete. There was still enough room for a couple of vehicles to pass between my pickup and the fountain.

The two-story red-brick house had plenty of arched windows, a porch that ran the length of the front, and a second-story balcony to match. I started to use the brass knocker on the eight-foot leaded-glass door when I noticed the doorbell. I pushed it and heard the chiming of some fancy tune. I stood there waiting for a butler decked out in a tux. I started to ring a second time when I heard footsteps, and the door opened. It was Marilyn Harper, wearing a beige pantsuit, a string of pearls, and holding a near-empty martini glass.

“Mr. McClellan?” she said, switching the glass to her left hand and extending the other.

“Yes ma’am.” I gave her hand a polite squeeze. “Nice to see you again.”

She smiled, looking a world better than when I’d seen her at the funeral. She was tall, in her mid- to late-forties, I’d guess, and still an attractive woman despite the recent wear and tear Maddie’s death must have caused. “Do come in.”

She turned and walked from the foyer into a huge great room. A wide staircase with fancy banisters curved up to the second floor. The vaulted ceiling was a good twenty feet high, with a huge crystal chandelier hanging in the middle. “Would you like a drink, Mr. McClellan?” she said over her shoulder.

“No thanks, and please, call me Mac.”

“Well, Mac,” she said, as I followed her toward a fancy oak bar that dominated one corner of the room, “I’ll have another, if you don’t mind.”

I hurried past her to the bar where a pitcherful of martinis sat. “No, ma’am, not at all,” I said, lifting the pitcher and filling her glass. Call it brownnosing, but it seemed to work.

“Thank you, Mac,” she said, crow’s-feet showing through her makeup as she smiled. “And you may call me Marilyn, or Mare, if you’d like.”