Margaret Maron - Bootlegger’s Daughter

“She was only twenty-two,” said Gayle, her voice passionate. “Four years older than I am right now. What if I really am like her?”

“Nobody’s going to kill you,” I told her.

Again it was the wrong comment and she waved me off impatiently.

“I’ve almost quit wondering about who killed her, Deborah. Now I think if I just find out why, that might be enough. People either pat me on the head when I ask what she was like or else they tell me another bedtime story. You knew her and you know everybody in Cotton Grove. And I’m not asking you to do it for nothing either. I’ve got Grampa Poole’s trust fund, and I’ll spend every last cent if that’s what it takes to find out what she was really like that somebody felt she needed killing.”

Jed didn’t like it when I called to tell him that Gayle was determined to go through with it one way or another. Not one little bit did he like it.

“She’s as headstrong as her mother,” he said finally, but his voice got softer. “Janie always had to have her way, too, didn’t she?”

“Just tell me what you want me to do, Jed,” I said impatiently. “I’ve got enough on my plate right now. I don’t need this. You want me to tell her no, I will.”

He sighed. “No, I reckon we’ll have to do what she wants.” He sighed again. “Better you than some real detective.”

North Carolina houses our State Bureau of Investigation in what used to be a school for the blind on Old Garner Road south of Raleigh. Some of us don’t let the agents forget it either.

When I showed up in his office without an appointment just before five that Friday afternoon, Special Agent Terry Wilson leaned back in his swivel chair, put that canary-feathered grin on his big ugly face and drawled, “Well, looky who’s here! You want to hear something funny? Somebody said you was running for judge.”

“Naah. Dogcatcher.” I tried to look serious, but a matching grin spread over my own face. Terry does that to me every time. Even when I used to get furious with him, I couldn’t stay furious. He’d cut those hazel eyes at me, the tip of his long nose would twitch and I’d laugh before I could help it.

There was a moment about six years ago when I seriously considered marrying Terry just because life with him could have been so damn much fun. The moment passed, since three things stood between us and the altar at Sweetwater Missionary Baptist: one, he was working narcotics undercover at the time and, as his first two wives had already learned, undercover agents don’t make good husbands; two, he’d made it clear that his son, Stanton, would always come first; and three, I’d made it just as clear I wouldn’t take second place for anybody or anything-not to Stanton, whom I actually liked, and certainly not to his job.

So we stayed buddies, and though we no longer partied together, we did still go fishing occasionally. In fact, the large-mouth bass mounted on the wall opposite his desk came out of one of my Daddy’s lakes. Stanton and I were both in the boat the day Terry pulled it in. Only eight pounds, but he was using ten-pound test, so it’d been a classic battle between man and fish. There’d been other, bigger bass, but that was the day we acknowledged our moment had passed and I sometimes wondered if that was the real reason he’d mounted this particular fish. Of course, at the time, he said it was because its big mouth reminded him of me.

Looking at him now, I suddenly realized it’d been over a year since we’d gone fishing together. His flat brown hair had thinned a little more, his crisp white shirt didn’t quite conceal the faint beginning of a paunch, and laugh lines were just a shade deeper around his hooded eyes. He was checking me for changes, too. I wore my sandy blonde hair a little shorter these days, and though I’d taken a few pains with makeup and clothes, time hadn’t exactly stood still for me either.

“How far’d you have to chase him for those ugly suspenders?” I teased even though they matched his maroon tie and actually looked rather sharp against the white cotton.

“He was right behind the good-looking gal you took that raggedy old blouse off of,” Terry grinned, maligning the beautiful turquoise silk shirt that I was wearing with a soft paisley skirt. He propped his feet on the open top drawer of his desk and leaned all the way back in his chair till his long body was lying almost horizontal beneath a large blue-and-gold plaque depicting the great seal of North Carolina. Esse quam videri with Liberty and Plenty for all.

I helped myself to the chair in front of his executive-size desk.

Except for one or two papers, the broad top itself was quite tidy for someone in charge of MUST, the SBI’s Murder Unsolved Task Force. In fact, the whole office was strangely bare of excess books and papers, as if the real work must surely be done elsewhere, not in this roomy, stripped-down office with spring sunlight blazing through the two tall windows onto the clean white rug. Nothing was piled on the two matching sand-colored file cabinets. A narrow white Parsons table beside Terry’s desk held a laptop and a printer and nothing else. The bulletin board over the table was only one layer deep, and there were even a few open spaces between an up-to-date wanted poster and some cryptic memos to himself.

His tackle box was always just that neat. No broken lures, no flutter of leaders, weights, or feathers.

On the opposite wall, the head-high bookcase was empty except for a row of looseleaf notebooks on the bottom shelf and some framed pictures of Stanton on the top shelf. He’d be about fifteen now, and of the three of us, he’d changed most of all, if the pictures were any indication-a young man all of a sudden and not a little kid anymore.

“ Stanton ’s getting handsomer all the time,” I said, picking up the wood-framed photograph on his desk. When Terry started to beam, I added, “Must take after his mother.”

“Like hell! Everybody says he’s me all over again.”

“What’s he up to these days?” I asked, truly wanting to know. I liked Stanton from the beginning. He lived with his mother, Terry’s first wife, and I knew he looked forward to weekends with Terry, yet he’d never seemed to mind when I came fishing with them.

“Doing real good. Plays shortstop on the varsity baseball team. Carrying a good solid B, too,” he bragged.

I put the picture back on his desk. “Starting to break a few hearts?”

The tip of his nose twitched. “Like I told you-he’s me all over again.”

“You wish!”

We talked trash a few minutes more before I broached Janie Whitehead’s murder and explained why I was asking.

“That was before my time,” Terry said, and without sitting up, he stretched across to snag a slim folder from the rack neatly aligned with the far edge of his desk. “I believe Scotty Underhill worked that case.”

He leafed through the eight or nine sheets in the file folder. From where I sat, I couldn’t make out specific words, but it looked like a condensed printout of all the unsolved cases assigned to Terry’s MUST team: names, dates, a one- or two-sentence description of each case and some comment as to any solvability factors.

“When was the last time it was worked?” I asked.

“Seven years ago,” he murmured, still reading.

The MUST force was developed only four years earlier.

“You didn’t rework it when you took over?”

“Oh, come on, Deborah,” he said. “I’ve got eight men and over two hundred cases. Janie Whitehead’s murder was thoroughly worked at the beginning and Scotty went back and poked around some more back in eighty-three. Nada.”

I vaguely remembered a flurry of hushed talk around Cotton Grove in the spring of 1983, but I hadn’t paid it much mind, especially since it died down almost as soon as it began. “And no suspects either time?”