client—and that was all there was to it.
He could be considered an accomplice, couldn’t he? An accomplice to murder? No, not just one murder. Five murders now.
It was too late for ifs. He had taken the job, taken the money, and unless somebody put the puzzle pieces together, he’d get away scot-free, just as the others would. They would all get away with murder.
The Steeplechase Grill and Tavern was located in downtown Vidalia. Atop the signpost outside the restaurant, a wooden cutout of a comic laughing horse’s head welcomed customers, setting the tone for the casual atmosphere inside the trendy establishment. Upon entering, the tantalizing aroma instantly whetted Derek’s appetite.
“Nice place,” he said as the hostess showed them to their table.
“Nice enough.” Maleah climbed up and sat on one of the bar stools that graced a row of dark wooden tables.
They had arrived at 12:30 P.M., prime lunchtime in downtown Vidalia, so the restaurant was packed. He glanced around at the dark paneled walls, lined with metal signs, and then looked up at the whirling ceiling fans and down at the floral/leaf design in the dark carpet.
Maleah scanned the menu hurriedly, laid it on the table and tapped her fingers absently. Turning her head right and then left, she searched for a waitress. “We should have just picked up fast food and gone straight on to Macon.”
“Settle down and relax,” Derek told her. “It’ll take us less than two hours to drive to Macon. It’s not as if Wyman Scudder is going anywhere. In the grand scheme of things, taking an hour for a decent meal isn’t going to matter.”
She heaved a labored sigh. “You’re probably right.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sure, why wouldn’t I be?”
“Half an hour with Jerome Browning, playing his sick little cat and mouse game, would have an adverse effect on anyone.”
She stared at him, her eyes speaking for her, telling him that even though she hadn’t walked away from the second interview with Browning without a few minor wounds, she had won today’s game.
“You bested him, didn’t you?” Derek grinned.
“I held my own. And yes, in the end, I won.”
“He’ll be all the more determined to draw blood next time.”
She nodded. “I’m well aware of that fact.”
The waitress appeared, all white teeth, freckled nose, and friendly attitude. “What can I get you folks to drink?”
“Sweet tea,” Derek replied.
“Unsweet iced tea, please,” Maleah said.
“Y’all know what you want or do you need a few minutes?”
Derek quickly looked over the extensive menu. One item caught his eye.
“I’d like the Charleston Chicken Salad,” Maleah said.
“Yes, ma’am. And you, sir?” the waitress asked.
“A rack of baby back ribs, baked potato, fully loaded, and onion rings.”
As soon as the waitress walked away to place their order, Maleah made a disapproving tsk-tsk sound with her tongue.
“You disapprove of my lunch choices?” he asked.
“It’s your health and your arteries that you’re clogging, not mine.”
Derek grinned. He had learned months ago when not to argue with Maleah’s reasoning, especially when she was right.
Despite the crowd, the service was good—fast and accurate. The waitress returned quickly with their drinks and a loaf of delicious brown bread coated with a hint of sea salt.
After their meals arrived, they ate in relative silence. Apparently Maleah thought that would save time and allow them to get off to Macon all the sooner. Halfway through eating the delectable ribs, Derek’s phone rang. Using the wipes provided with his meal, he cleaned the barbecue sauce from his fingertips, retrieved his phone and noted the caller ID. The Powell Agency’s number at Griffin’s Rest.
“This is Derek Lawrence.”
“Hi, Derek. It’s Barbara Jean. Sanders received some updated info on Wyman Scudder he thought y’all should have immediately. I’ll send a complete report via e-mail attachment later, and I’ll text the new address, too, but I thought you needed to know that the address we had is incorrect.”
“Okay, give me the correct address.”
She called off the new address on Third Street in downtown Macon. “It seems that Mr. Scudder just signed a lease on a new office and a new apartment a few days ago.”
“You don’t say.”
“What?” Maleah asked.
He waved her off, his actions requesting that she wait.
“Scudder has been making monthly deposits to his account,” Barbara Jean said. “A thousand a month up until the first of June, when he deposited fifty thousand.”
Derek whistled softly. “Now, why would anyone think a guy like Scudder was worth that kind of money.”
“Sanders suggested that you and Maleah might want to ask him.”
“Tell Sanders that he can count on our doing just that.”
“We’re still working on tracking down Cindy Di Blasi,” Barbara Jean said. “And after you texted us with the info that Browning told Maleah Durham is writing his bio, which implies this guy really could be the real Albert Durham, we had some luck finding him. Or at least more info about him.”
“No address or phone number?”
“It seems Albert Durham is a recluse and guards his privacy. He owns several homes, but keeps on the move a lot, travels abroad, works on extended vacations, that sort of thing. As soon as we come up with any information about where you can find him now, I’ll be in touch. Until then, we’re working under the assumption that the man who visited Browning is the real Durham. The info on the ID he used to enter the prison matches that of the real Durham, at least his physical description and date of birth. And the address is for one of Durham’s homes.”
“Thanks, BJ.”
Barbara Jean laughed when he used the nickname he had given her—BJ. She was a good woman. A kind and caring woman. Sanders was a lucky man.
As soon as he slipped his phone back in his jacket pocket, Maleah snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Damn it, Derek, tell me.”
“Scudder has a new office, a new apartment, and fifty grand in the bank.”
Maleah’s mouth dropped open, and then she smiled. “You can tell me the rest on the way to Macon.” She laid her fork on the table, removed her napkin from her lap, tossed it alongside her half-eaten salad, and slipped off the wooden stool and onto her feet.
Derek eyed the remainder of the delicious ribs, gulped down a swig of iced tea, and knowing better than to suggest they finish their lunch, he motioned to the waitress. When she was within earshot, he said, “We need our check, please.”
Wyman Scudder had served his purpose and had been paid well for his services. Unfortunately, Scudder was a liability now, a loose end that needed to be tied up.
