Death Crashes the Party (9 page)

Chapter 10

A pot of coffee kept me awake through most of the remaining footage. I woke up on the sofa in the den just after 6:00 a.m., stumbled to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face. My right cheek boasted a clear impression of the brocade pillow I'd fallen asleep on.

After stashing the videotapes in the one place Larry Joe would never venture—the laundry room—I performed mental yoga, trying to decide if I should start my surveillance of Ray Franklin early or go to church first. Guessing that he wouldn't get an early start on the day, and knowing my mom would call if she didn't see me at church, I swung by to check on Daddy Wayne, then headed to the eight o'clock service.

My usually stoic father-in-law honestly looked as if he'd been crying. He insisted he was having sinus issues, and Miss Betty and I talked him into going back to bed.

I slid into the pew and sat next to my mom just as the organ pealed the chords for the entrance hymn, signaling the congregation to stand. I rarely make it to Dixie Community Church's early service, which is my mother's service of choice. I prefer to go to the 10:00 a.m. service and usually only see Mama in passing as she's coming out of Sunday School and I'm going into the late service. I tell Mama we attend the ten o'clock service because Larry Joe doesn't get up in time for the 8 a.m. service, and he won't go to church at all without me, which is only partly true. The fact is, I don't like getting up so early on Sundays and Larry Joe's church attendance is sporadic, at best. When I do attend the early service, my mother expects me to sit with her, as if I'd misbehave if I sat with my friends.

The nondenominational church is housed in a rather nondescript building devoid of any ornamentation on the exterior, save a sign with the church's name on it. Inside isn't any fancier, with a tiled vestibule and a carpeted sanctuary. The matching padding on the pews and the carpet are a color that can best be described as mauve—an unfortunate decorating decision made in the eighties. But at least the pews are padded, something for which I am very thankful.

At nearly six feet tall, Mama towers over my five-foot-three frame. I got my height, or lack thereof, from my daddy's side of the family. Too vain to wear her reading glasses, she held our shared hymnal at a height that worked for her, and I peered over the page at the lyrics as best I could. The preacher read a scripture passage from one of those prophets tucked near the end of the Old Testament, but I had no idea what the sermon was about. My mind was fixated on finding out what Ray Franklin might be up to.

After the final amen, my mom pressed me to go to brunch with her and her friend Sylvia. The only person I know who can talk more than Mama is her friend Sylvia. She finally let me off the hook for brunch after I promised to go to lunch with her and to go shopping at the mall in Hartville on Monday afternoon.

I headed for the door as quickly as I could, pausing along the way for the obligatory handshakes and shoulder hugs. After shaking hands with the preacher and telling him how much I appreciated the sermon, I finally made a clean break and hurried to the car.

I stopped by the house, changed out of my church clothes, and took off on assignment with a notebook, a pair of binoculars, and a can of postman-grade pepper spray, which Di had given me just in case things got dicey.

About 9:25 a.m., I drove just far enough down the road where Ray lived to catch sight of his blue pickup truck.
Good
. He was still at home. I parked beside the convenience store/gas station across the street from Sunrise Mobile Village, which gave me a clear view of the only driveway in or out of the trailer park. After purchasing provisions—coffee and doughnuts—I settled in and waited. It was nearly 10:30 a.m. when Ray finally pulled out and headed toward the highway.

I followed and tried to keep at least one car between us. With sunglasses on and my hair pulled back in a ponytail, I hoped I wouldn't be easily recognizable to Ray, since I'd met him face-to-face on only one occasion. Ray's first stop was for gas at a little two-pump station. Afraid to get that close, I pulled into the parking lot of a small shopping center across the highway that housed a beauty salon, dry cleaners, and a cell phone store. There were enough cars pulling in and out to give me good cover.

Just as I started mulling over the idea of calling my own hairstylist to schedule a cut, Ray's pickup pulled back onto the highway. Despite a good bit of traffic, I was able to keep close to him without much trouble. Ray drove into a mini-storage site, another place where I couldn't really follow him without risking being seen. I turned into the next driveway, which belonged to a concrete company. The business was apparently closed on Sundays, so I circled around behind the building and stopped next to a chain-link fence that overlooked the mini-storage place.

With binoculars, I spotted Ray and made a note of the building and the unit he was accessing. Since I knew Ray lived in a small camper, I suspected that he used the storage unit to store his Civil War reenactment gear, like Darrell and Duane had. I also wondered if any of the stuff in his unit might be stolen. He opened a padlock, slid up the garage-type door, and went inside, then pulled the door about halfway closed. It was too dark and too far away for me to see anything inside the unit. He was inside for only a couple of minutes, and he wasn't carrying anything when he emerged.

I couldn't help but notice through the binoculars that Ray was dressed up pretty spiffily for him and even had his hair slicked down on top. The thought that a lady might be on his mind was further implicated when he stopped at a vegetable stand and bought a bouquet of flowers. Ray headed back in the direction of Dixie before turning off onto a county road that led eventually to McKay Trucking. As soon as there were no cars between us, I backed off to avoid being spotted and occasionally lost sight of him as we went over hills and around curves.

I panicked when I lost sight of the truck and didn't spot it once I'd made it around a curve. I sped up just in time to catch a glimpse of his truck disappearing down the gravel road that led to Tonya Farrell's farmhouse.

Chapter 11

“Can you believe the nerve of that guy?” I asked Di via cell phone as I drove back to town. “There he goes, flowers in hand, to see the Farrell brothers' grieving mother. He'll probably even try to seduce her.”

“That may be just what she wants,” Di said. “As hard as it may be for us to believe, some women might consider Ray Franklin a catch.”

“I can't believe he could get a date without roofies and a Taser,” I said, still shuddering at the thought of any sort of fleshly contact with the man.

I told Di I was on my way to the trailer park. “I should have at least twenty minutes to search Ray's trailer.”

“You're insane,” Di said, before adding, “Swing by my place and pick me up on your way.”

All the way to Ray's, I was worried about whether I'd be able to jimmy open the lock on his camper door. Before I could even fish the nail file out of my purse, Di had reached inside the concrete block serving as a step to the camper door and had pulled out a key.

Once inside, Di and I warbled a collective “Eeew” at the general state of uncleanliness. Di suggested that she start searching at the front, I start at the back, and we meet in the middle. In the back of the camper was a built-in bed. I tugged at the mattress to check for anything that might be hidden under it. The sheets were stiff and visibly stained; I wished I had brought gloves with me. I was looking in the fridge, again wishing I had gloves, when Di said she had found something in a box stacked in the corner.

“Here's a picture of Darrell and Duane when they were little kids. At least it's got their names on the back.”

I glanced at the photo and immediately recognized their mother's house. “That's definitely them,” I said.

Even weirder, Di said she had found a postcard addressed to Bobby Farrell at an APO address in Iraq with Duane's and Darrell's childish signatures, along with
X
s and
O
s, scrawled on it.

Finishing my search of the freezer, I noted that a TV dinner felt much heavier than it should. I carefully opened the end tab and slid out a small book from inside. It looked like a diary. Di and I found a book of a similar size and weight to put back into the carton, hoping Ray wouldn't notice the diary was missing, at least for a while. After trying to make sure everything looked as we had found it, we left. Although the place was such a mess, it could have been ransacked before we arrived.

I drove away from Ray's and started to pull up in front of Di's place. But I didn't want Ray to see my car when he returned, since I had been tailing him all morning, so I drove to my office on the square instead.

“By the way, Liv, I mentioned our doubts about that reserve deputy to Dave. The thought had already crossed his mind after he heard about the attack on the professor.”

“Good. At least he knows to watch his back until he knows for sure about that guy.”

We went upstairs to my office, and I laid the diary on my desk. Di pulled a chair from opposite the desk up beside me, sat, and peered over my shoulder as I paged through the diary we had found at Ray's. The first entry was from just over a year ago.

“I wonder who D. is?” Di mused.

“If the diary belonged to one of the Farrell boys, it could be referring to his brother—either Darrell or Duane.”

“Flip through a few pages and see if any names stand out.”

“Bro could certainly be one of the Farrells referring to his brother,” I said.

“Check the date of the final entry. See if it is close to the time of the murders,” Di said.

The last entry was made three days before the bodies were discovered.

“Oh, my gosh, Liv. It sounds like the brothers discovered the truth about whatever they were mixed up in, and it got them killed. We have to give this diary to Dave.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean Dave won't be able to use this diary as evidence, because it was obtained illegally. I'm going to take the diary home and read the rest of it. Hopefully, I'll glean some information that Dave can use as grounds to get a search warrant for Ray's trailer. Then we'll have to put the diary back where we found it so the sheriff can discover it legally.”

“Okay,” Di said. “Just keep in mind there could be information in that diary that already got two people killed.”

 

 

At home, I once again cracked open the diary, sunlight streaming through the window to illuminate the pages. The light began to fade into early evening shadows. I reached up to switch on the lamp when it suddenly occurred to me that I should have heard something from Larry Joe by now. I dialed his cell phone, but the call went directly to voice mail. For an awful moment, I imagined my husband lying unconscious and perhaps seriously injured in a hospital somewhere between Huntsville and Dixie. Maybe he had fallen asleep at the wheel. I called the warehouse number at McKay's and was panic stricken when there was no answer.

Pull yourself together
, I told myself.
Of course there's no answer. It's Sunday
.

After a few deep breaths, I had the presence of mind to call Ralph Harvey at home. He would have heard if the shipment Larry Joe was delivering had not arrived.

He finally picked up the phone after the sixth ring.

“Ralph, this is Liv McKay,” I said, trying not to sound hysterical. “Have you heard from Larry Joe today? I know it's silly, but he hasn't called, and I was beginning to worry that he might have had engine trouble or maybe even an accident on the way back from Huntsville.”

There was a long pause before Ralph mumbled, “He made it home safe and all, but, er . . . well, I'm sure he'll call you as soon as he gets a chance. He, uh . . .”

“Ralph, please just tell me what's going on.”

“Well, I'm sure it's just routine, but . . . the FBI seized the truck before we could unload it and took Larry Joe in for questioning.”

I think I said thanks or good-bye before hanging up the phone, but I can't be sure. My mind seized up as emotions took over. Larry Joe had been hauled off by the FBI, and it was all my fault. I never should have taken those tapes. And what if the FBI were to suddenly burst through the front door with a search warrant? They'd find not only the tapes but the diary, too. It would look like Larry Joe was systematically removing evidence.

I'd have to call and turn myself in, tell them I stole the tapes. No, that was no good. They'd just think Larry Joe and I were in on it together. What could I do? Finally, my sanity began to return. If Larry Joe had been allowed one phone call, he would have called our attorney, Bill Scott.

I called Bill and left what I hoped was a slightly coherent message, telling him to call me if he'd heard from Larry Joe, and to call me even if he hadn't heard from Larry Joe, because he would be needing his help. In a few minutes, Bill returned my call. I began to babble again, frantically, before he could get a word in.

“Liv, calm down and listen,” he said in a steady voice. “I'm at the FBI field office in Memphis right now, in the process of getting Larry Joe released from custody. He hasn't been charged with anything, and I should have him home in a couple of hours.”

“Oh, thank you, Bill. Is he okay? Is there anything I can do?”

“He's fine. Just sit tight. I've got to go now.”

I heaved a huge sigh of relief. But my relief quickly turned to anger as I thought about how the FBI was wasting precious time harassing my husband and my father-in-law while drug smugglers and murderers were on the loose.

With a renewed sense of determination, I went back to reading the diary, carefully studying each page. I didn't want to miss a single detail that might point to the murderer.

A couple of hours later, I heard the front door open and quickly stashed the diary under the sofa. I ran to the front door, threw my arms around Larry Joe's neck, and soaked his shoulder with my tears.

“It's okay, babe,” he said softly. “I'm fine. I've had proctology exams that were less thorough, but I think the FBI has lost interest in me as a serious suspect. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part. Anyway, they let me go and just told me not to leave town again without checking in with them first.”

I stepped back and took a long look at my husband. He looked dead on his feet.

“I'm sorry, honey,” I said, wiping the tears from my face and trying to compose myself. “Here, you've been through hell, and you're having to comfort me. Tell me what you need.”

“I want to drink a beer and then go to bed and sleep for at least twelve hours.”

“You've got it. Take off your shoes, put up your feet, and I'll bring you a cold beer.”

As he downed the last of the beer, Larry Joe could barely keep his eyes open. I put him to bed and snuggled up beside him. I figured he would be out cold as soon as his head hit the pillow. And I was right.

With Larry Joe down for the count, I slipped downstairs to the den to read the rest of the diary. As much as I wanted to skip to the last pages, I knew some of that information might not make sense without reading the earlier entries. Most of the entries were dated, some weren't, but they were definitely in chronological order. The first entry was from the end of June last year, and the last entry was from just a few days before the Farrells' bodies were discovered.

Since Darrell worked on the trucks, he must be Bro, I thought. That would mean this was Duane's diary. That made sense, because Tonya had said that Duane started keeping a diary as a kid, and Kenny had mentioned that Duane would sit on the apartment steps, writing in some kind of notebook.

Hmm. BB must be Bobo
, I thought.

Okay, clearly Bro and D are two different people,
I mused.
And D. must be somebody their mother knows, since he hid in the closet to keep her from seeing him. Maybe Bobo's first name or last name begins with a
D
. Could be he's a cousin or a schoolmate of theirs that their mom knows is bad news.

Hmm
, I thought.
“Our first Christmas with D. . .” Clearly, D. is someone very special to Duane, a father figure. Maybe Ray Franklin? But what's the D. stand for?