Killerfind (19 page)

oody,
who’d been leading
the way, stopped so suddenly that Rhetta bumped into him. She scrambled around
him. The woman’s expression had hardened as she stood there facing them.

“Now that you know who I am, would you mind telling
me who you two are?” Mylene stepped back and from somewhere that Rhetta
couldn’t have guessed, she produced a pistol and took aim directly at Woody.

Oh, crap. Didn’t see that coming.

Rhetta held up her arms, palms out. Woody was quick
to follow suit.

“Wait, that’s not necessary,” Rhetta said, directing
her chin toward the weapon. “In fact, you’ve been trying to contact me. I’m
Rhetta McCarter, and this is my associate, Woody Zelinski.” Woody nodded.

Mylene scrutinized them both for a long minute
before tucking the pearl-handled .38 into her waistband at the small of her
back. Her large chambray shirt, worn outside the denim capris had provided a
perfect hiding place for the weapon.

When she did, Rhetta and Woody lowered their arms.
Rhetta had a sudden urge to use the bathroom, but decided she could do that
later. Her bladder was probably contracting from fear.

“Well, this is a surprise, Rhetta McCarter. How did
you know to find me here?”

“How about if you tell me first, why you were trying
to reach me?”

“Is this what’s called a standoff?” Mylene chuckled and
reached in a breast pocket for a package of cigarettes.

As she went through the process of withdrawing one
and lighting it, it was Rhetta’s turn to size up Mylene. Although the woman
possessed a smoker’s voice, her pale facial skin, evidence of a life spent
mostly indoors, was remarkably free from wrinkles. Aside from a few tiny crows'
feet at the corner of her eyes, her face was smooth, and dotted with tiny
freckles. A quick glance to her thick, shoulder length hair didn’t reveal any
grey at the roots. Rhetta guessed they were about the same age.

Mylene stopped at a table sporting upside-down
chairs and deftly grabbed one, turned it over and set it on the floor near the
table. As she reached for another, Woody and Rhetta stepped up, grabbed one
apiece, and joined the first chair. The three sat, and Rhetta glanced at Woody.
His head was shiny.

Mylene began. “All right, Miss Rhetta, I’ll go
first. I wanted to meet you out at the barn where you found Malcom Griffith.
After I spoke to you, I decided that you might actually call the cops, so I
decided not to go.” She paused and took a deep drag. Another coughing fit
followed. Rhetta eyed the cigarette. Although she powerfully wanted to light up
and join in, the coughing and raspy voice reminded her of why she needed to
stay away from smoking. Was it already too late for Mylene? That didn’t do much
to quell her nicotine craving, which got stronger when she was stressed. Like
now.

Woody coughed and fanned the smoke away. He scooted
his chair back.

“I’ll put this out, if it bothers you,” Mylene said,
and ground the cigarette out on the concrete floor.

“Thanks,” Woody mumbled. He didn’t pull the chair
back up.

“What on earth did you want to meet me for?” Rhetta
continued. “Did you know Malcom Griffith?” Rhetta’s mind began racing with
possibilities. Could Mylene be the missing pole dancer?

Mylene nodded slowly. “I knew him. I wanted to see
where he died. I wanted to make sure he was dead. Your information was in the
paper, where you worked, etc., so you were easy enough to find.”

“Were you the pole dancer?”

“I was a pole dancer. I manage this place, now.”
When she saw Rhetta nod, she continued. “Which pole dancer were you referring
to?” In spite of accommodating Woody earlier, she fired up another cigarette.

Rhetta decided she must be a chain smoker. The stale
air and cigarette smoke began affecting her, too. She coughed and dared a look
at Woody before answering. His head had been swiveling back and forth as the
women spoke, as though watching a tennis match.

“I, uh, we, that is, we had heard that Malcom had
made off with a lot of money and a pole dancer. Of course, that was before he
was found murdered,” Rhetta said, squirming uncomfortably. She didn’t want
Mylene getting angry and whipping that gun out again.

Mylene threw her head back and laughed.

Rhetta and Woody exchanged glances. This was funny?

“Did you go out to the barn anyway, Saturday night?”
Rhetta asked. Woody coughed suddenly, and glared at Rhetta.

Ignoring him, she went on. “Did you happen to run
into Jeremy Spears while you were there?”

“Let’s go, Rhetta.” Woody said, jumping up and
grabbing her elbow. “The smoke is really bothering me.”

She jerked her elbow back, and glared at him. “I’m
just asking a question here, Woody.”

“I didn’t go to the barn. And I certainly didn’t
kill Jeremy Spears, if that’s where you’re going,” Mylene answered softly.
“Although I couldn’t stand the little creep.”

Woody sat, and put his hands up in surrender. “I
give up. I don’t know why she’s asking you this.”

Rhetta glared again at Woody, hoping that he’d just
keep his mouth shut if he couldn’t contribute anything worthwhile.

“The Cape Girardeau Sheriff’s Department has your
phone number, so if we were able to find you, I’m sure they can, too,” Rhetta
said, hoping to imply that the cops would know where to come looking for them,
should they not return home.

“What do you mean, we?” Woody asked.

Rhetta ignored him, and leveled her gaze at Mylene.
“I think you killed Jeremy Spears and Malcom Griffith.”

Woody groaned and buried his head on his arms.

Mylene took another drag, this time without
coughing. She blew a long spiral upward, then followed that with little round
puffs that morphed into smoke rings.

“My father taught me how to blow smoke rings,” she
said, almost wistfully. “He and I used to sneak out to the barn and smoke
together. Probably not the best thing for a father to teach a
thirteen-year-old. I guess I can thank him for the emphysema I have now.” She
ground the cigarette out in the same spot on the old floor where she’d
extinguished the other.

Rhetta glanced around. Now that her eyes had
adjusted to the dim interior, she observed several other dead cigarettes
scattered around the floor. She decided that cleanliness wasn’t a top priority
in the Pink Peacock.

Mylene shook her head. “No, my dear, while I give
you credit for finding me, your investigation is totally on the wrong tangent.
I didn’t kill either one of them.” She stood and ambled to the bar where she
poured herself a tall drink of deep amber liquid from a decanter on a glass
shelf. She reached for two more glasses. “Can I offer you a drink? On the
house, of course.”

Rhetta and Woody shook their heads.

She carried her drink back to the table and sat. “I
didn’t kill Jeremy, although I hated him. And I didn’t kill Malcom, because I
loved him.” She tilted her head back and downed most of the beverage.

Of course, she’s the pole dancer!
Even though she hadn’t run away with Malcom, she really was his missing lover!
Rhetta’s stomach quivered in
excitement. She couldn’t wait to tell Randolph.

Mylene smiled. “You see, Malcom was my father.
Jeremy Spears was my bastard brother.”

 could
use that
drink now,”
Rhetta said. Mylene smiled and headed for the bar. Rhetta wasn’t that surprised
to hear that Jeremy Spears was Malcom Griffith’s son, especially after finding
the love letter in Anjanette Spears’ desk. She hadn’t told Woody about her
find, so he looked completely ambushed.

“You want one, too?” Mylene asked Woody, raising a
glass. He shook his head.

She returned with a heavy whiskey tumbler and handed
it to Rhetta. Rhetta sipped, swallowed, and coughed. Straight, strong rye
whiskey. Maybe she needed a cigarette instead.

Just as she was working up the nerve to ask Mylene
for one in front of Woody, whom she had tried to convince that she had quit, a
loud thumping on the door interrupted them. She badly needed to bolster herself
with nicotine so that she could question Mylene’s story.

“We don’t open until seven,” Mylene said, as she
made her way through the tables to see who was assaulting the door. Rhetta was
sure that whoever was there was pounding so loudly they couldn’t have heard
her.

Rhetta peered at the frosted glass door, seeing only
general shapes of the group assembled there. A small cluster, determined to
enter, if the knocking was any indication. As soon as Mylene opened the door,
five men dressed in black stormed through.

Rhetta wasn’t sure who they were, but the weapons in
their hands captured her full attention.

“Hands on your heads!” barked the leader of the
contingent, a square-built man of average height, wearing a black, bulletproof
vest over black T-shirt and cargo pants. A black ball cap pulled low over his
eyes completed the ensemble and a badge hung from a belt at his waist. All
Rhetta could tell of his face was that he wore a thick black mustache. As soon
as Rhetta and Woody stood, Woody placed both of his hands on top of his head.
Mylene had already obeyed.

“Rhetta, put your hands on your head,” Woody said in
a very loud whisper.

“But, we haven’t done—”

“Do as I tell you ma’am. I won’t be telling you
again,” the mustache said as he sidled up alongside her. She made out the letters
“ACSD” on his cap.

“Okay, okay, but what’s going on?” No one answered
her.

Mr. Mustache took both of Rhetta’s wrists and in one
swift move, wrenched them behind her back and snapped shut a pair of handcuffs.

“Look here,” she protested, “what do you think
you’re doing?”

Again, he didn’t answer her, but turned and shouted
orders to the remaining lawmen. “Make sure you look everywhere, including the
damn toilet this time.” They fanned out. One disappeared into the washroom
area.

Woody and Mylene were also cuffed. Mylene snickered.
“It’s Alexander County’s finest, screwing up my life again.”

Mustache walked by and fairly hissed at her. “You’re
going down this time, Mylene, and I don’t mean with a customer.” He laughed at
his own joke, and pushed her forward. He began chanting, “You have the right to
remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of
law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney
present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be
provided for you at government expense.” He shook her. Rather roughly and
unnecessarily, Rhetta thought, before adding, “Do you understand?” 

Mylene didn’t answer. He shook her again. “Yeah. I
understand. By the way, Dick Tracy, you forgot to remove the .38 at my back.”
He stopped at the door, and relieved her of the weapon, stuffing it into his
own belt.

“This time, I want my gun back, understand? You guys
got enough weapons from me now to outfit the whole force of six. By the way,
who’s not here?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, yeah, Mr. Big Cheese, the
duly elected sheriff isn’t here this time. Is he too busy playing golf?” She
laughed. The deputy gripped her arm and led her out of the building.

Rhetta and Woody remained standing while the other
lawmen ransacked the area, overturning chairs, stools, and dumping out the
contents of nearly every open liquor bottle—and not into the sink. A dark stain
from the alcohol mixture pooling on the floor spread to the side of the bar.
The officers emptied the bowls of chips into the mix and ground it in with
their boots, laughing as they created a huge mess.

The stench of liquor wafted across the room, filling
Rhetta’s nostrils and making her stomach queasy.

As though finally remembering they had two people in
handcuffs, a young deputy strode over, pulled out a laminated card from his
shirt pocket and began reading, “You have the right to remain silent….” Rhetta
realized with absolute clarity that the place was being raided, and they were
being arrested.

The deputy shoved her in the small of her back,
urging her out the door and toward a waiting police vehicle—a black and white
four-door sedan with
Alexander County Sheriff Department
splashed along
the side, and red and blue lights swirling overhead. She stole a glance at
Woody. His face was ashen and his head shiny with perspiration. As they
marched, she remembered her purse was still inside the club. Her phone was in
her purse. She stopped walking, turning to face her captor. “Officer, please
have someone get my purse.”

He ignored her request, and urged her forward. He
pushed her hard enough that she stumbled. “Get into the car, ma’am.” He opened
the door, placed a hand on her head, and began to force her to sit.

She resisted. “I’d just hate to have my husband and
lawyer, Judge Randolph McCarter, have to bring theft charges against you.”

He shoved her all the way into the car, locked the
door, and went around to the driver’s side. Punching a radio on his shoulder,
he said, “Jack, bring my prisoner’s purse, will you? I’m trembling with fear
out here. Her husband is a judge.”

He said the word Judge like it had two syllables,
ju-udge
.

Not a good sign.