Swamp Team 3 (19 page)

It was such a direct hit, I was momentarily taken aback. “Maybe. I guess. Hell, I don’t know.”

She nodded. “I guess I can see that. You’re worried that you’ll really like him and then where does that leave you? Granted, I still have this thread of hope that the end of summer will come and you won’t be able to leave, but I know that’s not likely.”

I shook my head. “I like it here—might even grow to love it—but my entire life is somewhere else. The important parts of it can’t be relocated, especially to Sinful. It’s too late for me to reinvent myself. The person I am back East is the only person I know how to successfully be.”

“It’s never too late to reinvent yourself. God help us all if that weren’t true.” Ally took a breath and blew it out. “Look, I went to New Orleans for schooling that I had no interest in because that was what my mother pushed me to do. I quit and came back here to take care of my mother when she got sick—at least that’s what I told myself. But when I think back and am honest with myself, I was just looking for a reason to make a change. Then Mother had to be moved to the facility in New Orleans. And instead of going there with her, where there is a ton more opportunity, I stayed here, not making a move to do anything about my life until you showed up and told me to go for it.”

I smiled. “Easiest advice I’ve ever given. You were born to own a bakery.”

“I agree, but it took a stranger saying it before I thought seriously about it. Oh, it was always the pipe dream that I think about while taking a bubble bath or right before I doze off while pretending to fish, but I never took steps to make it a reality. I don’t think I even believed it could be.”

“But now you do.”

She nodded. “And you can do the same thing. You’re not that much older than me, so don’t give me the ‘old dog, new tricks’ argument. It won’t wash. Besides, Ida Belle and Gertie are ancient and those two are up to new tricks every day.”

I smiled. “Ida Belle and Gertie are in a class by themselves.”

“True, but that doesn’t mean you can’t change direction.”

“I know I can. I don’t know that I want to.”

“And that’s fine too. But promise me you’ll give yourself permission to at least consider your alternatives.”

“I promise.” The words were easy enough to say, and I could even entertain thoughts of what my life might be like if I quit the CIA and became a regular civilian. But the likelihood that anything would change in the end was still so slim it might as well be vapor.

“I’m going to run take a shower,” Ally said. “If you can hold out, I’ll make French toast when I come back down.”

“I can definitely hold out.”

She downed the rest of her coffee and rose from her chair.

“Hey,” I said. “That real estate agent that wanted to buy your mom’s house—do you remember his name?”

She frowned, probably thinking I was asking because I wanted to sell Marge’s house. “It’s been so long. Mark, John…it was something common. Robert! That was it. Robert Patterson. I can’t believe I remember that.”

“Thanks,” I said as she hurried out of the kitchen.

I pulled my laptop over in front of me and did a quick search for Robert Patterson and real estate agent. A website popped up on the first page of search results and I clicked on the link. Robert’s profile picture was right there on the top left corner of the website. I clicked on the Services link and saw that he specialized in commercial properties and most of his clients were shipping and distributing companies.
 

So why did he offer to buy a residential property?

I shook my head. Maybe the buyer was a friend or family of a coworker. There was no telling, really. The bottom line was that Robert Patterson looked legit, even if he wasn’t all that forthcoming with information.
 

I opened a new tab and accessed email on the off chance that Harrison had replied. My pulse ticked up a notch when I saw the email in my in-box.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

I’m glad to hear things are going well on the farm. I know you’re looking forward to harvest season. Unfortunately, it’s hotter than ever here in NE. I thought we were going to catch a break a couple of days ago, but the expected cooling disappeared and we were left wondering where it went. I’m still hoping we find some soon.

My dad was asking about you yesterday, and was happy to hear things are good. He’s hoping you’ll have time for a visit after harvest.
 

Take care!

My back tightened and I reread the email, making sure I’d interpreted it correctly. It sounded as if Harrison thought they were going to have a breakthrough on the case, but it hadn’t happened. But what I didn’t understand was the “disappeared” comment. Did he mean that Ahmad had disappeared? If so, that was really, really bad. I opened a new tab and pulled up harvesting schedules for the Midwest. Corn was what we’d agreed on.

October.

Crap. October wasn’t summer at all. It was dangerously approaching Thanksgiving.
 

I leaned back in my chair and blew out a breath. If this mess wasn’t settled by the end of August, what was I supposed to do? The real Sandy-Sue had to settle the estate, and I doubted she was interested in moving to Sinful. That meant she’d sell the house and contents. Even worse, it meant she’d come to Sinful to handle it all. The gig was definitely up then.
 

I’d hoped the news would be better. That the situation with Ahmad was close to solved and I’d be able to return to DC before things got more complicated here. But not only was the situation not solved, things had clearly gotten worse. Now I had to worry about not only finishing the summer out in Sinful, but where I would go afterward.
 

Far too many sobering thoughts for not quite 6:00 a.m.

Chapter Thirteen

I stuffed myself so full of breakfast that I was certain I’d start speaking French. What I should have done was gotten up from the table and run from Sinful to Peru, but I didn’t feel like moving that fast or that far. Instead, Ally and I grabbed books and headed outside. I climbed into the hammock and she dragged a lounge chair under the tree close by and flopped down on it.

Between my lack of good sleep, the huge breakfast, and the cool breeze, it wasn’t long before I nodded off. I had no idea how long I’d been sleeping when I felt someone shaking my arm.

“Fortune,” Ally said. “Wake up. Carter is here and said he needs to talk to both of us.”

My eyes flew open. “What happened?”

“I don’t know, but he looks really unhappy.”

“Crap. He must have found out about the motorcycle.”

She glanced back at the house, an uncertain expression on her face. “I don’t know. If that was the case, then he’d take it up with Ida Belle first, and she would have called to warn you. Besides, I didn’t have anything to do with last night—except covering it up, of course—so why would he need to talk to me?”

I frowned and climbed out of the hammock. “So what do you think is going on?”

She shook her head. “I have no idea, but I have a feeling it’s not going to be good.”

I trudged beside her toward the house, feeling the same way.

Carter was pacing my kitchen when we walked in the back door, and based on his expression, I had no doubt he was in full-on cop mode. He gave me a quick nod, then gestured to the table. “You’ll probably want to sit.”

“That bad?” I asked. “Or is it going to take that long?”

“Maybe a bit of both,” he said.

I glanced at Ally, who bit her lower lip and slipped into one of the chairs. I took the chair next to her, leaving Carter to sit across from me.
 

“I don’t know how else to say this,” he began, looking directly at Ally, “so I’m just going to come right out with it. The crew hired to work on your house found Floyd dead in your backyard this morning.”

Ally gasped and I straightened in my chair.

“Oh my God,” Ally whispered.

“How did it happen?” I asked, hoping Floyd had drunk himself into a stupor and impaled a lung on a random board or something. Anything but murder.

“I’ll have to wait for the report, of course, but someone cracked him in the head with a two-by-four. It was lying next to him.”

Damn it.

“What was he doing in my backyard?” Ally asked.

“That’s a good question,” Carter said, “and one I’d like an answer to. I assume you and Floyd did not have a late-night-back-door sort of relationship?”

“The only relationship I had with Floyd was the avoidance type,” Ally said.

“Probably wise,” Carter said. “Based on the crime scene, I have no way of knowing what he was doing there. Maybe he thought it would be an easy way to lift some things. Maybe he was just being nosy. What concerns me more is that someone was either already there or followed him there.”

“I prefer option two,” I said.

Carter nodded. “So do I, because it means Floyd’s murder is only about Floyd. But until I know for certain option two is the correct one, I can’t ignore the fact that someone might have already been at Ally’s house and didn’t want Floyd as a witness.”

“I don’t understand,” Ally said, clearly distressed. “Over twenty years I’ve lived in this town and been almost a nonentity. Now, all of a sudden, everything bad in Sinful is happening around me. Why? I haven’t changed anything. I haven’t done anything.”

I placed my hand on her arm. “None of this is your fault. Something strange is going on, but I don’t think it’s because of you.”

“How can you say that?” she asked. “Someone set my house on fire. Someone has been creeping around your house ever since I came to stay here. Now someone was murdered in my backyard. I’m the only common denominator.”

“I agree that things appear to be orchestrated around you,” Carter said, “but we have no reason to think it’s because of something you’ve done.”

“So what? It’s random victim selection month and he drew my name out of a hat? Threw darts at a local phone book?” She shook her head. “Look, I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but trying to tell me this isn’t about me is asking me to take leave of reality. It’s not going to happen.”

“I’m not trying to sugarcoat this,” Carter said. “It’s in your own best interest to remain suspicious and on alert. I’m just saying that although the circumstances surround you, I don’t believe you have anything consciously or directly to do with what’s happening.”

Ally relaxed a little. “I guess I can agree with that.” She glanced at her watch. “Is this going to take much longer? If so, I need to call Francine and let her know I’ll be late.”

Carter shook his head. “That’s all I needed. The rest of my conversation is all about Fortune, and if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to have it alone.” His jaw hardened and he frowned.

Ally glanced over at me, one eyebrow raised, then rose from her chair. “Then I’m going upstairs to get dressed for work. Do I need to ask either of you to disarm yourselves before I leave?”

“I’m not armed,” I said, “so if there’s any shooting, it’s all on Carter.”

Ally gave me an encouraging smile before leaving the kitchen, but I knew she felt the undercurrents just as I did. Whatever Carter was about to say wasn’t going to be pleasant.

I waited until Ally’s footsteps faded upstairs then said, “Let me have it.”

Carter moved into the chair next to mine and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Floyd was hit on the back of the head with a two-by-four, but that’s not what killed him.”

He turned his phone around and showed me a picture of Floyd’s body, splayed out faceup next to the charred remains of Ally’s back porch. “He was stabbed in the chest,” Carter said. “Notice anything interesting about the weapon?”

I took the phone from him and enlarged the image to zero in on his chest. The object impaled in his chest was thin and black and wasn’t very long. I squinted at the screen. Something about the object was familiar but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I twisted the phone a bit from side to side, and tiny flecks of silver glistened on the object.

Holy crap!

It was the heel from my shoe—the one that I’d left stuck in the plywood floor of the Swamp Bar. Instantly, the scene with Ahmad’s brother and my shoe—the incident that had caused me to be hiding in Sinful in the first place—flashed across my mind. Clearly, the universe was telling me I shouldn’t wear high heels.

“That is the spike from a woman’s shoe,” Carter said. “A woman that Floyd chased out of the Swamp Bar last night, threatening to kill. A woman who jumped on a motorcycle with another person to get away.”

“Do you think it’s the same motorcycle that ran through the chicken coop?” I asked, trying to keep my voice normal. Patrons of the Swamp Bar weren’t the sort I ran into at the General Store or Francine’s Café. Chances were any of them would pass me on the street today and never recognize me for the floozy who was in the bar last night. So until Carter had solid evidence that it was me, ignorance was still my best defense.

“I think it’s definitely the motorcycle that ran through the chicken coop, and I think you already knew that.”