Dead Man's Curve Page 4

“Call it whatever you want,” Callie said. “He thinks he can pick up any girl in the school because he’s some superstar basketball player.”

  Kelly narrowed her eyes. “And he can’t?”

  “Look, I don’t know about you, but dunking a basketball isn’t a big deal to me. I couldn’t care less about where he’s going to college or if he’s going to be a star in the NBA. That doesn’t matter to me—or most of the girls at Millersville High. It certainly didn’t matter to Emily.”

  “What did matter to her?”

  “Relationships. Friendships. Certainly, not his attempts at drunk groping. She would never give him a shot because she knew who he was—a shallow egomaniac.”

  “What was your relationship with Josh Hood?”

  Callie sighed. “We dated once for a few months. He was boring. All he wanted to talk about was basketball. He was very self-absorbed. I didn’t have time for that. If I’m going to spend my time with a guy, I want a guy who is into me, not himself.”

  “Well, let me ask you this—do you think Josh Hood is capable of murder?”

  Callie laughed. “Maybe. I don’t know. You never really know people, do you?”

  Kelly focused her question. “I don’t know Josh Hood like you do. So, I’m asking you?”

  “If you’re asking me if he’s a jerk? Yeah, he’s a jerk. If you’re asking me if he could do what people are saying he did to Emily Palmer? I’m not so sure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he talks a good game. It’s what he does with the ladies. He’s sweet and charming—and then he turns into some entitled brat. If he pays attention to you, he feels like you owe him something.”

  “Did Emily pay attention to him?”

  Kelly scoffed. “He wishes. She was probably one of the last hotties at school who wouldn’t give him the time of day. I’m sure it tore him up to know that he couldn’t have her. I doubt he was seriously interested in her since she was into church and stuff. But that just meant it was a bigger challenge for him—a challenge he refused to turn down.”

  “So, what happened that night at the party?”

  “A lot of stuff happened.”

  Kelly continued her fishing expedition. “Such as?”

  “Such as Emily turning down Josh. It wasn’t anything new, to be honest. She turned him down plenty of times before.”

  “Was there anything unusual about that night?”

  “Josh always hated it when girls told him no. He’d get violent sometimes, but usually just punch something nearby. A tree. Maybe a car hood. It was his way of letting everyone know he wasn’t happy about what just happened.”

  “Did he do that with Emily?”

  “Of course. But it was different this time. He jumped in his car to follow her.”

  “And nobody tried to stop him?”

  “Are you kidding me? You don’t stop Josh Hood. He does whatever he wants.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He followed her, of course. Nobody tells him no.”

  Kelly paused and looked Callie in the eyes. “Do you think he killed her?”

  Callie shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. I never saw him get aggressive—except when I told him to back off.”

  “Aggressive how? Did he attack you physically?”

  “It was nothing I couldn’t handle. Mostly just a pushy attitude.”

  “Thanks for your help, Callie. I think you answered all the questions we had.”

  “You’re welcome. Good luck,” she said. “Emily was a good friend of mine. I’d love to know who did this to her.”

  “That’s what we’re hoping to find out.”

  “Well, be careful. This town is good at keeping secrets.”

  Kelly nodded as Callie slowly closed the front door.

  When it latched shut, she turned to Cal. “So, what do you think now?”

  “I think we have quite a story on our hands—and we still have plenty of questions.”

  CHAPTER 11

  WILFRED LEE STROKED the wood grain finish on his Sauer 202 Avantgarde Grande Lux VIII. He preferred American-made products to imports—except when it came to his hunting gear. The German engineering on his rifle outperformed any American-made rifle on the market, leaving him with no choice but to buy from overseas. Some of his hunting buddies criticized him for it, calling him a hypocrite.

  “How can you say American rifles ain’t any good yet you’ll go nuts when someone says The Macallan scotch whiskey is better than anything Lee Creek makes?” one of his friends said once at a dinner party.

  “The Macallan says its secret is in the River Spey,” Lee replied. “And I’ve seen the River Spey. It’s nothing compared to the Cumberland River. However, I trust my tongue to taste the difference when it comes to whiskey. With my rifles, I trust the results.”

  And nobody could argue with his results when it came to shooting. Lee held the title of best marksman at the Greystroke Lodge—the only one of its kind in Miller County—for more than ten years running. When he really wanted to be obnoxious at a party, he’d pull out a laminated certificate he made for himself to verify that fact. Not that it was necessary. More than a half hour with Lee and anyone within earshot would hear at least one story related to his special skills with a firearm.

  Speaking of whiskey …

  Lee took a long pull on a camouflaged flask he held with the Lee Creek Distillery logo embossed on the side. Now that’s smooth.

  It was about the only thing that was smooth in his life at the moment. The paradise he’d concocted for himself in Millersville suddenly seemed like a war zone to him. Big city reporters nosing around town. An FBI investigation. Sports media looking to rake some muck as it pertained to his nephew Josh. And then there was another matter that needed attending to, a personal matter. He learned long ago that escaping trouble was much like the ancient Chinese art of acupuncture: if he applied small amounts of pressure in the right places, he could avoid unnecessary pain.

  Lee peered out across the field as he mulled over what appropriate pressure points might relieve him of the turbulence facing him and his beloved town. There were myriad options, all at his disposal. But the situation with the reporter might require more pressure. He seemed undaunted by the fact that he might lose his job and his reputation would be tarnished. It was going to take something else, something more. And Lee wouldn’t mind.

  Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz.

  Lee set his flask down and dug out his phone.

  “Sheriff Wilson, to what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?” Lee asked.

  “I just wanted to let you know that we took care of your little problem today.”

  “Fantastic. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble for you.”

  “It’s never any trouble to help you out,” Wilson replied.

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  Lee hung up and reveled in his victory. His secretary, Virginia Wimberly, had recently filed a sexual harassment suit against him. She’d gone to the newspaper with it, though a story about it had yet to appear in the town rag. Most people in Millersville understood the distinct lines drawn around Lee and the county’s largest employer. Cross him once and it was a good way to get crossed out. For those who didn’t readily go along, Lee exercised his leverage in the right place.

  Such pressure was how he turned Sheriff Wilson into his lap dog. When the Sheriff refused to help him eliminate a problem in the form of a pesky old man who refused to sell Lee the land he needed to expand his distillery, Lee ran a little photo sting. He followed Sheriff Wilson during one of his rounds one evening and discovered that the county’s most powerful law enforcement figure had a crush on Mrs. Ida Baker, the wife of one of his foremen who worked the late shift. All it took was a handful of photos for Lee to gain the upper hand on the Sheriff, who’d make the mistake of falling for Gordon Baker’s wife. Gordon Baker was a boxing champ in the Army and had once beaten a man to death in the ring. On his nights off, he moonlighted as a bouncer and held l
egendary status for his ability to fling men across the room like they were Frisbees.

  “I’m not very good at keeping secrets when people don’t play nice,” Lee told the Sheriff as he tossed a file folder on his desk the next day. By the end of the week, the ornery gentleman agreed to terms with Lee, allowing Lee to forge ahead with his distillery’s expansion plans.

  However, Virginia Wimberly required extra pressure. Lee had offered to pay her off in exchange for her silence. “I’m not after money,” she told Lee and his lawyer during a meeting. “I want to expose you.”

  Lee chuckled as he thought about the conversation. Exposure is what got him into trouble in the first place. But the situation was nothing to laugh about. Lee prided himself on his pristine character, never mind that it was propped up by his ability to buy it. He wasn’t about to let one obstinate secretary blemish it.

  Sheriff Wilson followed Lee’s orders to pull Virginia over on her way home from work. Lee’s initial plan was to have the Sheriff tell her he’d received reports of her car weaving and arrest her for driving under the influence. However, the Sheriff suggested something more sinister—wait until she had her children in the car after daycare. According to one of the sheriff’s friends who served as a family court judge, Virginia was embroiled in a nasty divorce with visitation being a key point of contention. A DUI with her children in the car would likely end any chance of her getting custody, much less unsupervised visitation. When Sheriff Wilson pulled her over, he told her that if she’d just accept Lee’s offer, it could all go away. And Wilson just so happened to have the agreement with him when he pulled her over.

  Just the right pressure in the right place.

  Lee returned to scheming about how he might rid himself of these other problems threatening to disrupt his life now. Then he noticed an eight-point buck striding across the field.

  Keep coming, big fella. Lee picked up his rifle and put the beast in his sights. That’s it. Just a little bit more.

  He smiled as an idea came to mind. Two problems solved at once—this must be my lucky day.

  Lee squeezed the trigger.

  Crack. The sound echoed through the holler. Several birds took flight and filled the air with an ominous warning to their feathered friends.

  “What the—” Lee said as he put his gun down and reached for his binoculars. The deer didn’t appear to be struck as it bounded off toward the far edge of the woods.

  Lee let out a string of expletives and threw his chair on the ground. I can’t believe I missed!

  He then vowed not to miss any of his other looming targets.

  Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

  Lee dug his phone out of his pocket again and looked at the caller name flashing on his screen.

  “Change of plans,” Lee said. “I’ve got a better idea of how we can take our town back from these clowns who are invading it.”

  “I’m all ears,” the man said.

  “Good, because we’re only going to get one shot at this—and you better not miss.”

  CHAPTER 12

  JUSTIN PALMER LINGERED at the doorway to his wife’s room. Elizabeth looked peaceful for once. The IV bag hung just to the right of her bed dripped slowly. It served as an hourglass for the time she had left—and there wasn’t much of it. He walked over to her bed and kissed her on the forehead. She didn’t move.

  “Is she okay?” Palmer asked Angel.

  She smiled at him. “She’s fine—just asleep. I’m sure she’ll be awake when you come home from work.”

  He nodded and headed for the door, preparing to absorb himself in meaningless work matters. He opened the door and then glanced at the packet sitting on the kitchen table. He’d left it there since Wilfred Lee’s visit several days ago. Accepting it meant he’d have to forego any chance of ever knowing what happened to Emily. It was bad enough that he would be widowed soon. But no closure for Emily? He struggled with accepting that fact, though he told himself that it wasn’t something he had to accept—yet.

  On his way to work, he listened to KIX 101.5 FM, Millersville’s Classic Country radio station—not that there was any other kind in these parts. All the new country pop sound was about as pleasant as listening to a hound dog howl in the holler after a raccoon had gotten the better of him. When “Take This Job and Shove It” came on the air, Palmer let the grin trying to eclipse his dour mood spread across his face. Then Randy Travis’ “I’m Gonna Love You Forever” aired next, reducing Palmer to the point of tears.

  I swear, if I ever find out who killed Emily …

  Palmer stopped short of making any vows. He needed a calculated approach to find out what Wilfred Lee was really up to and why he had offered him such a generous package. There was no good explanation for it. And while his boss never shied away from trumpeting his philanthropic activities, Palmer knew this was neither philanthropic nor something Lee wanted public. If it leaked out what Lee was doing, it could cast him in a poor light and raise questions about his motives, even if he tried to shroud them in some act of compassion. The whole situation gnawed at Palmer.

  After Palmer’s ten-minute commute came to an end, he parked his truck and trudged across the parking lot.

  “Mornin’, Palmer,” Gary Bradshaw yelled from several cars down.

  “Mornin’,” he answered.

  “Gonna be another beautiful day.”

  Palmer nodded, unwilling or unable to engage in small talk—he wasn’t sure which. Either way, he was content to turn over in his mind all his options for uncovering the truth behind his daughter’s death. None of them appeared as viable choices at the moment.

  He looked down, disappearing into his thoughts, before he felt a strong hand slap his back.

  Bradshaw’s beady eyes stared back at him. “Why the long face, partner?”

  Really, Gary? Do you even know what tact is? Palmer looked up. “It’s been a rough few days—a few days I don’t really wanna talk about.”

  Bradshaw nodded knowingly. “I understand,” he said. “When we had to put Charred Oak down after she broke her foot, I thought it was going to kill me, let alone devastate Mindy. That girl loved that horse more than life itself.”

  Geez, Gary. You’re comparing my dying wife and dead daughter to the time you had to put down a horse? “Life sucks sometimes, doesn’t it?”

  “It sure does. But it doesn’t have to stay that way. Keep your head up. Maybe your luck’ll change soon.”

  Maybe you’ll get lucky and I won’t see you walking in front of my car in the parking lot after work. “I can only hope.”

  ***

  PALMER USED HIS WORK as a place of escape—and it wasn’t a bad one either. Mr. Lee made employee satisfaction a top priority. It was why there were foosball and ping-pong tables in the break room and two full-length basketball courts outside. Breaks were not optional, and every employee in the production facility from the supervisors down to the grunt workers were required to spend one day each quarter working in the quality control department. It was the only task where inebriation was a pre-requisite, so much so that all employees on that shift each day were given a ride home on the company van. Whenever Mr. Lee received bad news about the previous quarter’s sales, he’d use quality control as an excuse to get drunk with his employees. The stories retold from those days only increased Mr. Lee’s lore, though Palmer hardly believed half of them.

  Palmer entered the facility and walked up a set of blue steel steps. He pulled on the railing as he peered onto the production floor below. Once he reached the second level, he proceeded to the bullpen, which was the name given to the shift supervisors’ cubicles jammed into a large open room. It yielded little privacy, not that Palmer spent much time there. He used to retreat to his desk to call his wife, but not any more. His cubicle served as more of a landing spot for his coat and other items, not a respite from the grueling work of supervising and training employees.

  He slumped into his chair and looked at the clipboard on his desk, which outlined the producti
on expectations for his shift. He rolled his eyes, knowing his crew would never make quota.

  Seth Reed sauntered by Palmer’s desk before stopping and coming back. “Something on the quota sheet that you don’t like, Palmer?”

  Palmer looked up. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  Reed shook his head. “You know how the old man is—if something’s bothering him, he takes it out on the little people. But if you’re that ill about it, I hear Coleman called in sick and it’s his day to work quality control. Whad’ya say?”

  “I’ll pass. The last thing I need is to sit around all day drinking whiskey.”

  “I thought that’d be the first thing you’d want to do.”

  “Yeah, well. Life sucks right now, but I’d rather get some answers instead of drinking it away.”

  “Suit yourself, but if you change your mind, let me know.”

  “Thanks.”

  Palmer returned to staring at the impossible quota. So much for quality over quantity.

  ***

  AT LUNCH, PALMER SPED to the break room and retrieved his lunch. He took it outside and sat alone at a picnic table on a hill just above the parking lot. The cool November wind made sure no one joined him.

  From his vantage point, he could see the entire comings and goings of Lee Creek Distillery. He watched with disdain as Mr. Lee roared out of the parking lot in his truck. I wonder whose life he’s going to mess up now.

  Palmer pondered ways he might exact revenge on his boss. Perhaps he was the one who killed Emily. Or maybe not. He wasn’t convinced of anything other than the fact that Lee knew something about his daughter’s death. The path he traveled in his mind was dark, darker than he even considered himself capable of. Sunny days were long gone in his life—and he doubted they’d ever return.

  A soft voice shook Palmer from his doldrums.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Palmer looked up at Hannah Hartley, one of the secretaries in the bullpen. He motioned for her to sit down without saying a word.

  “You look like you could use a friend.”