Mississippi King Read online

  “Come on in out of the storm.” Ingles motioned us inside.

  “Mind if I ask who that was?” Arabella hitched a thumb over her shoulder as Judge Ingles shuffled ahead of us and into a front sitting room.

  “He does odd jobs for me around the house. Things I can’t do anymore.” He sank into a wingback chair with a groan as lightning hit nearby, the accompanying thunder rattling the window panes.

  Arabella and I sat on a creaky loveseat. The furniture was dated, and everything was coated with a layer of dust.

  “Odd jobs? Like what?” Arabella already had her notepad at the ready.

  He gave a sort of amused frown. “I’m not sure where this is going, Officer, but I’ll humor you. I’ve gotten too old to take care of the lawn or even do the cooking. Nancy from next door handles that for me now. About all I’m good for these days is listening to people argue and deciding who’s in the right.” He rubbed his right knee with one age-spotted hand. “What can I do for you?”

  “As I’m sure you’ve heard, Letty Cline was killed last night.”

  His face remained impassive, but he nodded.

  “I came here because I think you may know something about her death. Hers and Randall’s.”

  “Why would I know anything about that?” He adopted a puzzled, sad tone. “We were friends. All of us. Have been for a long, long time.”

  “Are you certain you can’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt them?”

  A streak of lightning brightened the stuffy sitting room, illuminating his face, the splotchy skin pale and weathered. “No.”

  “Can you tell me anything about Letty’s shop?”

  “Her flower shop?”

  “Yes. I’m specifically asking about the extensive renovations a few years ago.”

  He stopped rubbing his knee. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that Letty’s flower shop isn’t known to do a high-volume business, so all those renovations had to be financed by someone else.” She clicked her pen. “A quick check with her bank and a look at her records would probably tell me that she didn’t get a loan.”

  Judge Ingles had gone still, not even moving when another close lightning strike had thunder booming through the house. “What does this have to do with me?”

  “If you financed those renovations—and the renovations of other spots on the square and along Main Street—and used Randall King as the attorney on the—”

  “I’m sorry.” He rose unsteadily. “But I’m afraid it’s time for you two to go.”

  “What?” I stared up at him.

  “I’m asking you to leave.” He motioned toward the foyer.

  “What do you know?” I rose, anger heating my blood as I peered at the old man as if it were the first time I’d ever seen him. “What happened to my dad?”

  “Benton, please.” He shook his head and looked past me toward the back of the house.

  “No.” I advanced on him. “Tell me what you know. What the hell is going on?”

  Arabella put a hand on my arm, the pressure firm. “We’ll go.”

  “No.” I balled my hands into fists. “You need to talk.”

  Ingles’ tone turned pleading. “Please—”

  A creak sounded from the hallway.

  My hackles rose, and Arabella pulled her pistol.

  “No, don’t.” Ingles’ voice cracked as he moved toward her. “It’s probably just Nancy with my din—”

  Arabella peeked around the corner. A shot cut through the stuffy air, and I grabbed her shirt and yanked her back into my arms. The sound had been muffled, but a chunk of the door frame was gone, shattered by a bullet. My blood rampaged through my veins, and I didn’t want to let go of Arabella. That bullet had come too close. I clutched her to me, desperate to keep her safe, even though she was the one with the gun.

  Heavy footsteps thundered through the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of a screen door slamming.

  “Let go!” Arabella pulled from my grip.

  She dashed down the hall with me at her heels, though we slowed at the kitchen door. Her gun at the ready, she peeked around, then darted inside. Past the butcher’s block, the back door was open.

  Rain poured outside, a breeze carrying an earthy scent on the air. Beyond, the back yard was a sodden mess, and the high wooden fence blocked our view of the alley. The shooter had disappeared into the coming night.

  “Shit.” She leaned against the counter and holstered her pistol.

  I rushed to her and pushed her hair away from her face, inspecting for any damage. A thin trickle of blood ran from her right temple.

  “Hey.” She flinched as I ran my thumb over the source.

  “I think you got a splinter.”

  “A splinter?” She looked up at me. That’s when I noticed her breaths were shallow, her hands shaking.

  “Yeah.” I moved closer. “Just breathe.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You almost took a bullet to the face.” I wanted to kill whoever had shot at her. The emotion made me blink hard, both because it was foreign and because of how strongly I felt it. Refocusing on her, I ran my fingernail along the edge of the splinter. “I can get it. Hold still.”

  “It’s just a splinter.” Her breath caught as I flicked at the tip of it. “Ow.” She rested her hands at my sides, her fingers clutching the material of my shirt.

  “It’s too big to ignore it. As my mom used to say, it’s ‘tetanus-sized.’” I’d never been this close to her. Slowly, I pressed the tip of my thumbnail beneath the piece of wood, lifting it a bit.

  She hissed. The primal sound sent a rush through me, adding fuel to the adrenaline fire that already blazed through my bloodstream. Inappropriate, but undeniable. I took a steadying breath then pinched the splinter between by thumbnail and fingernail, pulling slowly until it was free.

  I leaned over and grabbed a dishtowel from the butcher’s block and pressed it to her temple. “It’s a bleeder.”

  She took the towel from me, our hands brushing during the change in ownership. Swiping at it, she took a look at all the blood, then pressed it back into place.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not too bad.” Her hands weren’t shaking anymore, and she seemed steadier.

  I didn’t want to back off a step, but I did. Gaining her trust had moved right to the top of my list next to “find my father’s killer.”

  She took a deep breath, then glanced down the hall. “Looks like I have a few more questions for Judge Ingles.”

  “He knows what’s going on. He has to.” What did he get my father into?

  She swiped at the wound again, then tossed the towel down on the butcher’s block. “None of this is a coinci—”

  The sound of an engine starting had us turning toward the front of the house.

  “Judge?” I bolted toward the hallway.

  We made it to the front porch in time to see Judge Ingles speeding away in his Cadillac.

  17

  Arabella

  I speed-dialed Logan as Benton and I rushed to my car. Judge Ingles had disappeared into the deluge, his tail-lights long gone as I backed into the street and headed the way he’d gone.

  “Arabella?” Logan answered.

  “Put out a BOLO on Judge Ingles.”

  “On the judge?”

  “Yes!” I hung a hard right onto Main Street, and Benton’s head was on a swivel as we searched for the white Cadillac. “Someone just shot at me at his house. Then he high-tailed it out of there. He’s involved.”

  “Shot at you?” He whistled. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. They missed me.”

  “Jesus, Arabella. We need to be working this case together.”

  “What we need is to find Ingles.”

  “You think he killed King and Letty Cline?”

  “No.” I squinted as tail-lights appeared ahead of me, but it was an older Chevy beater, not the Cadillac. “Maybe. I need to think more on it, but for now, tell everyone to
be on the lookout. I want him found. And can you ride out to his farm property? It’s off old 34 near Cane Creek. See if he’s holed up there.”

  “I’m on it. Let me go so I can tell everyone. Then I’ll head out to his farm, see if he’s there. I’ll call you back in a bit.”

  “All right. Bye.” I dropped the phone into the cupholder and sped past Shady’s Diner, heading out of town.

  “Shit.” Benton turned and peered at the road behind us. “He could have gone the other direction.”

  “I know.” I slammed my hand on the wheel, then pulled onto the shoulder and skidded to a stop. Why did it seem like this investigation had been haywire from the moment my phone rang with news of Randall King’s death?

  “We’ll find him.” Benton’s voice, smooth and low, cut through the static in my mind.

  “Could he have killed your father and Letty Cline?” I leaned my head back and stared at the roof of the car as the rain drummed on the metal. I tried to imagine Judge Ingles as the gunman, but I couldn’t. “At his age, with the way he was moving? I don’t see how he could’ve gotten the drop on your dad.”

  “Dad was still spry. I mean, he won a dancing competition not that long ago. But if the judge had walked in with a gun in his hand…” He shrugged.

  “But Letty Cline, too?” I thought back to how she looked. “She was dressed in her pajamas. As if whoever killed her had woken her and walked her downstairs, talked to her, then shot her. I can’t see Judge Ingles managing a gun, a staircase, and a woman like Letty. She was younger than your father. In shape, too.”

  “Right.”

  “Not to mention that someone else was in his house. The shooter. But Ingles seemed to know he was there. I can’t be sure. Maybe Ingles hired the shooter to do his dirty work?”

  He looked up, his mental gears turning the same as mine. “How fast can Pauline and her tech do a slug comparison on the projectiles that killed my dad and Letty, along with the slug that has to be embedded in Judge Ingles’ wall?”

  “That’s a specialized sort of testing that’s done up in Jackson. It would take weeks, at the very least.”

  “Shit.” He drummed his fingers on his knee.

  I checked my side mirror, then did a u-turn back toward town.

  “Got an idea?”

  “Let’s search the judge’s place. He invited us in, not to mention we have plenty of probable cause after I was shot at. No Fourth Amendment issues there.”

  “Agree.” He shrugged. “It would stand up in court.”

  Maybe it wasn’t so bad to have a lawyer riding along on this investigation. I just wished he’d come clean with me about the missing file when he discovered it. Going to his dad’s house—I already knew about that—though I was interested to see if he’d tell me the truth. Logan had put Trevor, Brody’s partner, on the house to see if anyone turned up.

  “How’s the—” He tapped his temple.

  “It’s fine.” It stung, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “Thanks.”

  He shrugged.

  “I mean thanks for getting the splinter out.”

  “I’m a man of many talents.” He shrugged as we pulled in to the judge’s driveway again. The rain was letting up, but thunder still rolled across Azalea.

  “Let’s do a quick sweep.” I chewed on my lip as I considered my options. I only had a handful of uniforms to work with, and Brody was stationed at Letty Cline’s, Trevor at Randall King’s. The other two were patrolling and keeping a lookout for the judge. They’d been in the field almost nonstop since this mess started. Pulling any of them wasn’t a good move. I only had one option, though it pained me to use it.

  “Crap.” I grabbed my phone again.

  “What?”

  “I’m calling Porter.”

  “Why?”

  Porter answered.

  “Hey, it’s Arabella.”

  “You find out who did it?”

  “No, not yet.” I gave him a quick rundown of events, then asked, “Could you send one of your deputies over to Judge Ingles’ place to keep watch? I hate to ask, but my officers are already spread thin, and I—”

  “Not a problem.”

  “He owns a farm out on the edge of the county where it bumps up against Carson. I sent Logan out there to check it out, but I’d feel better about it if he had some backup.”

  “Okay. I can send Carrigan. He lives just this side of Carson County, so he’ll probably know where it is.”

  I sighed, feeling even more relief than I’d expected. “Thanks.”

  “Just let me know if you need anything else. How’s Benton?”

  “He’s—” I gave him a side-eye,“—moderately useful.”

  Benton grimaced and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Yep. Sounds like him.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “Anytime. I’ll get Jake over to the house in town right now. Later.” The line went silent.

  “Moderately useful?” Benton pinned me with a hard stare.

  I shrugged. “You’d be fully useful if you would tell me the truth.”

  “I am telling the truth.” He huffed. “We are on the same page. I swear.”

  “We’ll see.” I opened my door, a raindrop splatting on my forehead as I retraced my steps to the front porch.

  He followed and beat me to the door, pushing ahead of me. “Wait. Maybe the shooter came back.”

  “In that case, I should go first.” I’d already pulled my pistol, holding it at the ready.

  A rattling noise came from the back of the house. We shared a look. Going slow, we crept down the hallway as the faucet turned on and the familiar tick-tick-tick of a gas burner ended in the hiss of flames. I dropped my arm to my side and peeked into the kitchen. A woman who I presumed was Nancy the neighbor was slicing up some okra on a cutting board while a cast iron skillet heated on the stove behind her.

  Okra, shit. I never had gone to Millie Lagner’s house to investigate the okra theft.

  “Nancy?” I eased into the kitchen.

  She looked up, the knife poised in her hand as a confused look crossed her oval face. “Hi?”

  “I’m Detective Matthews, and this is—”

  “Deputy King,” Benton supplied.

  I let that pass and continued, “We’re going to have to ask you to go on back home. The judge isn’t in.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “It’s fine.” I tried to give her a reassuring smile. “But if you don’t mind…” I gestured toward the door.

  “Oh. All right. Sure.” She set the knife down, then wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ll just put this in the sink.”

  Benton touched my arm, and then his warm breath tickled my ear with a whisper. “I’ll check the rest of the house.” He ducked into the hallway.

  I wanted to tell him to wait, but I had business with Nancy first. Keeping my tone light, I asked, “Do you happen to know Leonard?”

  “Leonard?” She rinsed her hands.

  “Yes. He was here earlier. Judge Ingles said he did odd jobs for him, cut his grass, things like that.”

  Her eyes rounded with recognition. “Oh, you mean Lenny.”

  “Sure.” Something pinged in my memory, but I couldn’t get a bead on it before Nancy continued, “He comes around at least once a week. Does landscaping, burns the leaves every fall, helps Judge Ingles with his gun collection. Things like that.”

  “Do you happen to know his last name?”

  She hung her apron on a peg next to the sink. “Can’t say as I do. He doesn’t talk much. But he’s always nice enough to me.” She put her hand on the door knob, but hesitated. “Are you sure everything’s all right with the judge? All these murders lately, and the fire…” She shivered, though it was a bit too dramatic to be genuine, and grabbed a wet umbrella leaning by the door. “It gives me the creeps.”

  “Everything’s fine. Thanks so much for your help. I’ll let the judge know you came by.”

  “All right.”
Wariness filtered through her voice, but she shot a quick glance to the badge on my lanyard. Apparently, she decided I was legit, since she opened the back door and stepped out, opening her black umbrella and picking her way down the steps.

  I closed the door and locked it, then ventured into the hallway. “Benton?”

  “I’m upstairs. No one’s here.”

  “Find anything?” I called.

  “Not yet. I just checked the closets and peeked under the beds. Nothing in-depth.”

  “I’ll start down here, then.” I crossed the hallway and entered a small study. A writing desk stood against one wall, a weathered wooden chair with chintz cushions sitting in front of it. I opened the drawers, but they had some blank stationery, pens, and office items. Nothing of interest. Judge Ingles didn’t have a computer.

  A filing cabinet sat in a corner, so I went there next. The top drawer was filled with receipts for the past five tax years. The middle drawer had all sorts of information on cars the judge had bought within the last couple of years—several of them high dollar sports models that he’d special ordered from out of state. I thought back to the house layout—the attached garage could only hold one car. Where were the rest of them? I made a note, then continued to the bottom drawer. It was mostly empty, only a few random documents concerning his ownership of this house and his farm. Maybe the cars were there.

  I moved out of the study and gave the dining room a quick once-over, then stopped to inspect the wall where the slug had lodged. I couldn’t see it, only the splintered bit of molding and the shattered drywall. Pulling out my phone, I sent Pauline a quick text and asked her to send her tech over to photograph the scene and retrieve the slug. She replied with a simple “10-4.” I liked that she didn’t ask any questions, just did her job.

  Heading up the stairs, I met Benton on the landing. “Anything?” I asked.

  “No.” I could hear his frustration, though the light had faded away until I could barely see him. “I even used the pull-down to the attic. Nothing up there but Christmas decorations that may, in some bizarre time twist, even predate Christ.” He descended the steps.

  “Nothing downstairs either, except some files on Judge Ingles’ luxury car habit.”