“I hear sirens now. Would that be they?”
“Yes, Mr. Attaway, emergency units should be approaching as we speak.”
The sirens of approaching police cars
screamed into the recording.
Click.
Back to the live scene, several police cars and other unmarked vehicles pulled into the yard and blocked the street while an ambulance waited in the driveway.
The reporter
sensationalized the events as small-town reporters often do thinking it could be their break for the networks or cable news. The TV camera operators focused on the front door of the house then scanned back to the ambulance flashing lights. The camera zoomed in for a final shot of this eccentric neighbor tugging on the leash of his excited basset hound.
J
ess ran hard on the treadmill searching his mind for the conversation he had earlier with Sammi Brockton. What did she say that made her so distraught? Her tension was worse than usual. She talked before her massage for a few minutes but nothing out of the ordinary. Same subjects. Her husband’s long hours at his real estate business and the new neighbors’ constant intrusions on their time.
She didn’t whine
just seemed so sad. He half-heartedly listened to her woes mainly because she tipped so well, well usually. Still, Jess enjoyed working on her since she would lie still while he worked his magic. For the three months she had been a client, he often noticed something troubling her. He wished now he had paid more attention to her muscles and what she was saying at the time.
Now
, he was sure Sammi said something worth remembering. Jess repeatedly asked himself, ‘what was it she said,’ to the rhythm of the treadmill. His walk turned into a run as he chanted, “What was it she said? What was it?”
“I just can’t believe she would kill her husband!”
“But she was in the house at the time.”
“Who
was that man that called the police?”
“I knew there was something about her, something sneaky”
“I don’t believe it. Somebody who loves animals the way she does and takes strays to the vet, finds them homes would not kill anybody! I just don’t believe it!”
“Well, she’s pretty, and she tries to fit in, but, I’ve never felt comfortable around her. I just don’t know. I’m not saying
I think she did it, I just don’t know about her.”
“Someone finally caught him, if you ask me. She’s not the one who’s sneaky, if you ask me. I’ve always thought he was just running a scam.”
“A scam! Blake Brockton’s one of the most respected people in Macon in the whole United States, and probably the wealthiest in the whole state of Georgia! Of course, she killed him and for the money, too, I bet.”
And so it went
, the constant chatter at the Exquisite You Beauty Salon in River Town, Georgia concerned one conversation after news alerts interrupted the beginning of General Hospital. Clients gasped when a handcuffed Sammi Brockton was placed in the backseat of a Bibb County Sheriff’s car.
Evelyn Young, the owner,
was certainly curious about the scam mentioned knowing it could be a number of things. But due to the huge crowd in her shop, she could not get into an in-depth conversation of Blake’s murder at this time without raising more eyebrows.
Fi
fteen clients progressing in their beauty application watched the big screen TV in silence, unusual in itself for this bunch of women. It was sure to be the soap opera of the decade. Blake Brockton was dead!
Samantha Brockton
was something of a celebrity herself in this central Georgia community. She was beautiful by any standard which brought on a mysterious air. Always dressed in high fashion. Best of all, at least to the beauty shop patrons, she came with baggage, which they all enjoyed unpacking.
The stor
y around town, or at least around the beauty shop, was that she had lived in New York, San Francisco, and even Venice, Italy. One of the beauty shop out-of-town regulars passed around a photo of Sammi and a Texas billionaire so often, she became a celebrity herself. The photo from People magazine showed the laughing pair entering a stretch limo in Manhattan about five years ago on their way to dinner on his yacht. The photo became legend, and of course, legends are easily made when captured minds of a cocooned group of women wait for their stylists to turn them into butterflies.
Evelyn we
nt directly to the phone to call Anne Jones, one of her stylists lived across the street from the Brocktons. She heard Anne’s distinct Southern voice. ‘Leave a message or call me back, whatever’ as JJ turned into the main shopping center in River Town, slowing as she bounced over the speed bumps.
She entered the front door as E
velyn left the message for Anne. “Anne, Evelyn, what happened? Call me. I want to know every detail!”
“Hi Mrs. Young,
” JJ said entering the shop.
“
JJ, what’s your dad saying about Sammi?”
“
Sammi? Mrs. Brockton?” JJ asked with a puzzled look noticing how busy the shop was today.
“Yes,
JJ! Sammi Brockton. Why was she arrested when there are so many other people who’d like to see him dead?”
“See who dead?”
She raised her arms asking for a clue to what Mrs. Young was talking about.
“Blake Brockton. He was murdered this afternoon!”
“Mr. Brockton? Mr. Brockton’s been murdered! So that’s what Dad’s big story is.”
“So what did you
r dad say? Why did they arrest Sammi?”
“
He didn’t say, just that he might not be home till late. I did ask him but he had hung up by then.” JJ’s mind turned a backflip.
“What did you say,
JJ? I barely heard you.”
“Oh
, nothing, Mrs. Young. Let me get started on these towels and sweep all this hair up, and I’ll call Dad and see what I can find out.”
JJ
would call her dad, but would keep any information to herself. She chose not to picture a woman like Sammi Brockton in jail. She looked up to see Channel 13 showing the police officer putting Sammi in the police car. She listened a moment as a TV reporter interviewed a heavy-set, mustached man dressed like a bad golfer. His facial expressions were non-existent. He had just found a bloody body, and he had a blank expression. “How odd,” she said.
“What’s odd, hon,” Evelyn asked.
“Oh, just thinking about something from school today.” She did not want to share her thoughts especially about Samantha Brockton. She idolized Mrs. Brockton and hated any gossip about her. “I know she wouldn’t hurt anybody,” she said walking back to the laundry room.
JJ didn’t worship Sammi
, but she did have her on a pedestal. The woman had befriended her a number of times. Sometimes Sammi showed up in the afternoon for a comb out. After her appointment, she helped JJ with impressive displays enticing customers to buy a bottle of the latest hairspray or frizz control product. She was fun, and JJ knew she cared about her. Wonder why she doesn’t get her nails done here? Huh, I wonder why—oh, yeah, that!
She
taught JJ some of her hard-learned lessons. “Don’t take circumstances at face value or make rapid decisions. Think it through, JJ,” she would say. “Then make your decision.”
JJ
needed a mentor to help guide her during the rough spots. Her mom had left her at two years of age so Sammi was her go to person.
JJ poured the soap in the washer. Hot wash. Cold rinse. Start.
“Just don’t let it ruin your life.” Her advice was practical and spot on from someone who had lived it. “Don’t hold it in. Keep a journal if you don’t want to talk to someone, and that will help clear your mind.” JJ started keeping her journal the day of Sammi’s advice almost a year ago.
She took the broom and dustpan to the front position.
“It’s so important to communicate,” Sammi had said. “Verbal expression is so important in a committed relationship.” She could recall Sammi’s counsel word for word it meant that much to her.
Sammi
told her that’s what attracted her to Blake so quickly. The fact that they connected accelerated their relationship. He confided in her about personal events in his life, and it made it easier to tell him about the events of her parents’ deaths. But some things she just could not talk about. Not yet anyway.
Sammi said she’d tell me one day when
we could spend some time together away from the beauty shop. JJ’s thoughts shifted while unpacking and replacing new hair products in the display. She remembered how she got the job in the first place; Mr. Brockton suggested she apply for it. He was at the school every couple of days. Sometimes he spoke to classes; sometimes he was with students in the hallway, but most of the time he was in Dr. Christian’s office.
North Bibb Satellite
Campus had three guidance counselors. JJ met with each of them at one time or another but mostly with Dr. Christian and Dr. Jacob. She was never in real trouble, but she was often on the verge of it. “I just don’t like sitting at a desk all day. I don’t mind the work; I’m just too squirmy to sit still that long.” She asked for make-up projects, homework assignments, and anything else for the extra credit to help bring up her grades.
As a
sophomore, when she waited to see a counselor, Mr. Brockton approached her and asked if she was Cain Matthews’ daughter. He told her how a series of articles boosted community spirit. It was the basis of a news documentary on a national cable TV station and played a major role in bringing the new industry to town.
“Wow!”
JJ replied to him.
“I’ve
just rented part of a building for a beauty shop and they are looking for part-time help. Do you think you’d be interested in talking to Mrs. Young, the owner?” he asked.
Towels washed. Dryer set for
forty-five minutes. Start.
After talking to Mrs. Young, she accepted the job and Mr. Brockton arranged for the school bus to drop her off right at the front door.
At the time, she thought he was just a very nice man who cared about students. Later, she changed her mind. He did help the school kids find jobs and encouraged them to stay in school, but something about him just did not seem right.
Back to sweeping.
She remembered one day, he stormed out of the counselor’s office without saying a word as she stood outside the office. He was so angry that he almost knocked her down without so much an ‘excuse me.’ She was sure she heard Dr. Christian crying.
“
JJ, JJ! Earth to JJ!”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” JJ said.
“You certainly were in deep thought,” said a stylist. “Run back there and get me a bottle of Shimmer #5, will you, hon?”
Getting
lost in her thoughts is partly why JJ stayed on the verge of trouble almost constantly. She brought the product to the stylist. “Here ya go! We only have two more bottles left. I’ll put it on the supply list.”
“Thanks, hon, we just couldn’t get
by without you!” said the busiest stylist at EY. “How was school today? Mr. Grumman still your favorite teacher?”
“I don’t know about my favorite
teacher but I do know he’s my favorite to look at! He had on this bluish color sweater today and the back of his gorgeous hair stuck to his shirt collar. Wow, I could barely think. And his gorgeous blue eyes just penetrate your soul!” JJ realized the patrons found this entertaining so she played the part by swooning and rolling her eyes and pulling the broom to her heart with her crossed arms.
E
veryone laughed. All the ladies just loved JJ. She was the daughter every woman wanted except for her own mother who left without a word almost fifteen years ago. She went back to her duties. The commercial finished and every face turned toward the television.
Detective Hilda Marabell had a sixth sense when it came to crime. The Governor had appointed her to a high profile investigative team about three years ago. Her notoriety led to invitations as keynote speaker at college courses and law enforcement seminars across the State. She once accepted an instructor position in the Office of State and Local at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Brunswick, Georgia, but later refused to stay in Bibb County. It remained a mystery to her fellow police officers since she was not married and had no children or family in the area.
At
forty-two, Hilda was a bit unsettled and immature about life. She had never had a boyfriend. She dabbled on the Internet dating sites and met a few men, but she had never advanced to that second date. She knew she did not make a good first impression. That poor self-image made her try too hard, which in the end did her in. Her colleagues liked her enough to include her in social events even though most had seen her curt side. But, hey, they acknowledged, this job is stressful! You just had to overlook her if she acted too snappy. The one other female detective and the female police officers thought Hilda brought a little class to the dirty work they often had to do. They enjoyed her cheeriness and fun she brought to the dreariness of murder investigation.
Hilda had attractive features but was not considered attractive by a man’s standards.
Her cropped haircut was very chic, but did nothing for her round face or plump physique. She dressed very stylishly even though her job often put her in less than attractive places. Hilda’s county salary could not quite keep up with her champagne tastes for classy clothes, so she sought out consignment shops or the Rescue Mission for some great bargains. It did not embarrass her either. In fact, she shared her fabulous finds with her fellow officers who often asked her to be on the lookout for various wardrobe items.
When the
emergency call came in on Blake Brockton’s murder, she was just five miles away at her very favorite consignment shop, ReClassyfied.
Hilda
asked Lois to hold her purchases and she’d be back as soon as she could. She turned on her emergency lights and siren, pulled out of the parking lot, drove north on Northside Drive and turned left on to City Boulevard. In just a three-mile stretch, there must be ten to fifteen sub-divisions with Riverside in their name. How confusing.
She passed the sign, ‘
Leaving Macon, Georgia – hurry back!’ and entered the small bedroom community of River Town. At one time, River Town was the unofficial capitol of the South thanks to the beautiful Ocmulgee River that flowed through the center of town. She crossed the bridge and made a left turn into Riverside Station subdivision, left on Sweet Mountain Drive and right onto Sleepy Meadows Road and finally onto Sleepy Meadows Lane which merged into Sleepy Meadows Court. She wondered how anyone ever got their pizza delivery with so many similar sounding street names. She arrived at the Blake Brockton murder scene within six minutes of the radio call.
She talked to Mr. Attaway for a moment but he was still so addled from discovering the body, he was of no help.
And the dog had pooped and marked every tree in the yard not to mention getting crime scene technicians tangled up in the leash. He asked if they could talk later. He would like to get on home.
“Just give me your phone number so I can make arrangements with you.”
She interviewed countless neighbors. She went over every inch of the house, the black Prius in the driveway, the yard and even the two vehicles in the garage. Other than finding Mr. Attaway’s dog prints in the victim’s blood, there was not one bit of evidence. No weapon. No fibers. Nothing. Not yet, anyway. Detective Marabell appeared stumped this time. The phone call was all she had.
The
autopsy report would take several days so she would just have to keep digging. Something gnawed at her gut. She had returned to the precinct at five o’clock but decided another ride out to the house without all the onlookers would help.
She radioed Detective Jasper
Nelson, her partner on this case, and asked him to meet her at the house next door. “Jaz, let’s get down there and spread that crime tape out around the whole yard. I don’t want any more busybodies traipsing through there.” She did not even want anyone in the driveway or parked curbside until she could go over everything again.
He
arrived first and used the trees to extend the parameters with the bright yellow tape. I’d hate to rake this yard. He studied all the houses on the block. He wondered if this many people were out walking every day or were just curious observers for today.
He eyed them suspiciously as if one of them c
ould have done it. He knew the wife had been taken into custody, but he didn’t know why. Hilda had not found any incriminating evidence. There was nothing to tie Mrs. Brockton to the death of her husband. Nothing he knew about. A top defense attorney would have her released any time now.
H
e continued to stare at the houses and the nosy neighbors taking photos.
* * *
Austin Jones approached his neighborhood after another grueling day in Atlanta. He closed the deal on three Lexus automobiles that morning totaling almost $200,000. As a top salesman for the past ten years, he loved the business and the business loved him. His unique skill in sizing up the customer, weeding out the Saturday lookers and zeroing in on those who came to buy paid off in a handsome way.
Many of his customers were celebrities who made their home in the suburbs of Atlanta. He particularly liked the sports figures that came around asking for him as if he were a celebrity of sorts
since he had built a reputation of great service at a great price. Although he had no interest in sitting and watching baseball, football or tennis, he knew every detail of the sports especially the successes of the Atlanta jocks who were his customers. He knew them and knew them well.
Austin
was a man’s man with dark brown eyes, brownish-black hair with premature gray highlights and dark olive skin. His wife maintained his moderate length haircut. His physique was not intimidating but he definitely had that presence, that attitude that would just draw you in. At six four, he was perfectly proportioned. He avoided trendy clothes dressing instead like old money always filled his pockets.
Riverside Station was
by no means ritzy compared to some of the other neighborhoods in nearby cities, but it was the oldest in River Town. He and his wife, Anne, wanted to get their son out of Atlanta schools. All houses had nice large yards from two to five acres kept in a natural setting. There was no ordinance about the upkeep. If the grass needed mowing, no one sent a nasty gram or better yet hired a high-priced company to cut the grass and send you the bill.
The house they bought had been in foreclosure
. It had belonged to an elderly couple who due to extensive medical bills exhausted their equity, which was also their children’s inheritance. When the couple finally moved into a nursing home, which preceded funeral and cemetery costs, there was no money left to make house payments and upkeep. The only daughter still living practically gave it to the bank since the mortgage was almost paid. Still, the house sat on the market for more than a year.
Anne
and Austin felt at home the moment they saw the sprawling ranch. It had four large bedrooms, a smaller room for Austin’s office, and a huge basement for a pool table and rec room, with lots of closets for storage. Anne particularly loved the kitchen. Austin could not understand that because she never cooked. Austin loved the backyard. Anne did not understand that because he knew nothing about plants or landscaping.
Not knowing the history of the owners until almost four months ago, Austin now knows he paid too much. He
had offered a lower than listed price but still he paid too much.
One more turn into the
cul-de-sac and he would be home. This was Anne’s day to carpool and to take Alan to the doctor to complete the physical fitness form. She promised him a trip to the mall for new cleats. Dinner would be pizza, hopefully, delivered; he did not want to go out again tonight.
He turned his
brand new Lexus convertible into the driveway, raised the garage door and eased in besides Anne’s older model SUV. The hood was up so he would have to listen to her complaints again.
He was s
o preoccupied with his thoughts that he had not noticed the curious onlookers just a few feet from his property much less the yellow crime tape surrounding his neighbor’s five-acre estate. Detective Nelson noticed him as he whipped inside his garage.