their whiskey the old-fashioned way with corn mash, sugar, and pure well water that had never known a drop of chlorine.
Near to where Kezzie had stopped his truck, a narrow footpath led off to the right and as soon as they left the open field for the cover of trees and vines, he could hear water rushing over the rocks along the creek bed. Blue jays jeered at them from the safety of their treetops and a nervous thrasher chirred a warning from the underbrush where a nest probably held her clutch of brown-spotted eggs. The path wound down around a two-hundred-year-old pin oak and they spooked a rabbit that went crashing off through the underbrush. Without waiting for permission, Ladybelle immediately streaked after it, but Kezzie could almost see Blue shrug at the impossibility of his arthritic old legs catching up to those younger ones.
The banks down here were considerably tidier since Grayson Village got built on the other side. The village’s maintenance crew had trimmed back the wild grapevines. Poison oak had been eradicated, and greenbriers and blackberry brambles cleared away to make room for a path wide enough for two or three people to walk abreast and enjoy uninterrupted views of the creek. Discreetly placed black wire baskets encouraged hikers to toss their bottles and cans there and so far, it seemed to be working. No garbage in the water nor along the banks that he could see. Some of his sons still grumbled about establishing a greenbelt in common with Grayson Village, but Kezzie was pragmatist enough to know that if he had held Talbert’s feet to the fire over the property line, the man might have put in a trailer park with trashy tenants just to spite him. Possum Creek could be a dirty, choked-up sewer instead of a clear stream that sparkled and gurgled in the morning sunlight.
He and Talbert might cooperate when necessary, “But we ain’t never gonna be friends,” he told himself.
Ladybelle waited for them at the bend of the creek, panting with exertion. She and Blue touched noses, then he followed her down to the water’s edge.
Distracted by a bullfrog that had recently emerged from hibernation beneath the soft wet mud, neither dog immediately saw the man leaning motionless against a tall maple tree on the other side of the creek near a rustic wooden bridge. He wore tailored khaki pants pressed to blade-sharp creases, leather boots, and a tan windbreaker. Sunlight caught the gold of an expensive watch on his wrist.
The two men stared at each other across the water.
“Knott,” the other man said evenly.
Kezzie gave a formal nod of recognition. “Talbert,” he said.
“We’re sure this is her writing?” Bo asked as he finished reading for the third time the letter found in Candace Bradshaw’s bedroom.
“I faxed it over to the SBI lab along with known samples and they say everything was written by the same hand. No question,” said Dwight.
The two sat in Sheriff Bo Poole’s office with a copy of the letter on Bo’s desk between them. The original pale pink sheet, monogrammed in a deeper rose, had been fingerprinted and was now preserved in an acid-free envelope under lock and key as part of the secured chain of evidence collected at the scene of every violent death, whether self-inflicted, accidental, or possible homicide.
“I’ve got a call in for Terry Wilson,” Dwight said, referring to a supervisor in the State Bureau of Investigation who was as much a friend as a fellow lawman.
“Good,” Bo said. “They’ve certainly got more people than we do. I’ll go upstairs and talk to Doug Woodall. If he’s not too busy running for governor, maybe I can get him to remember he’s still our DA and we need his full-time help on this.”
He brushed back a strand of thinning broom-straw hair. A small trim man with an outsize reputation, the sheriff had won his last five elections and was likely to stay in office as long as he chose even though the allegations in this letter could be political dynamite. Granted, the alleged corruption probably would not reach beyond the county line and even if proved would not be worth more than a couple of paragraphs in
On the other hand, he knew as well as Dwight how tightly they were stretched these days. More people in the county meant more crime. In addition to the normal load of homegrown sin, gang activity had picked up down near Makely, crack and meth were pouring into the county, a clerk in the utilities office was accused of embezzling nearly a quarter-million dollars, and there was a hit-and-run on Old 48, only this time they had a witness and a detailed description of the car, which reminded Bo all over again that they still had an open hit-and-run on their books. “And damn, I hate that, Dwight.”
“Me, too, Bo. Deb’rah was talking about it again just last night. She really liked Linsey. Something she said though’s got me thinking. What if someone ran him down deliberately?”
“Murder?” Bo asked.
“Well, I look at this letter, I can’t help wondering. Candace says she was greedy and that she enriched herself and some of her friends with her insider knowledge. You’ve heard the talk, Bo. Wasn’t much said as openly last year as now, but what if it’s not all partisan political grousing? Say she really was misusing the office more than usual— took kickbacks, tipped off friends so they could buy up land before the county expressed an interest in it. If Linsey got wind of it last year, you know what a snapping turtle he could be.”
“He’d sure hold on till it thundered,” Bo agreed. “So who was Candace Bradshaw balling these days, Dwight? Danny Creedmore?”
“That’s what I’ve heard. Long as she was going to kill herself, it’s too bad she didn’t name names. It’s almost like she wanted to slime as many people as she could.”
The Humvee that drove into the farmyard that morning was black and menacing-looking, a behemoth that came nowhere close to matching the small bulldog of a man who swung himself down from behind the wheel. His jeans and his jean jacket were artfully faded, but their cut and fit did not come from Kmart and they were much newer than the authentically faded and stained pants of the big men who held their ground to watch the newcomer’s approach.
“Mr. Knott?” he asked, stretching out his small pudgy hand with an ingratiating smile.
“I’m Robert Knott,” said the elder of the two gray-haired farmers. After a slight hesitation, he put out a calloused hand that completely encased the other’s. “This here’s my brother Haywood.”
