Harden had never mentioned working for Sue Hines.
“Having Julie and Jace in their home put a strain on her marriage,” Dare said. “Jace only thinks of Jace and left his fifteen-year-old alone with Bo and Sue. Julie and Sue got along at first, but it didn’t last long. Bo seemed to be the only who could connect with her.”
“Have you had any luck talking with Julie since Sue’s funeral?” I asked.
“Not yet, but we have a date for coffee on Friday,” said Dare. “I did see on Facebook that she dyed her hair a ridiculous shade of red.”
We sipped our mimosas. Something wasn’t right.
I said, “I thought Bo and Jace hated each other.”
“Jace and Bo were members of the same hunting club in Alabama. They had a falling out—as always happens in any relationship with Jace—but Sue kept them together.” She added, “I had heard long ago it was some grudge over a girl they both dated, but like everything in this town that happened before 1990, nobody will ever share any details about it. The vagueness of these people slays me. Even Sue said she couldn’t remember any details.”
I said, “I wish Roger was still here. He would know.”
We toasted her glasses to his memory. Dare said, “I miss him, too.”
“Why does every fight around here always go back to high school?” I said, not expecting an answer. “In the Mississippi Delta, you trade punches, somebody pulls you off each other, and everyone goes for a drink. The dispute is settled.”
“Not here,” Dare said. “You have two problems: Frost and Jace. Sheriff Frost isn’t going to let up, and he will impact your sales. A dead deputy is never well received by the community, and people will want an explanation.”
“Or a scapegoat,” I said.
She nodded. “Bo and Jace together can be formidable. Jace is shrewd enough to play up Amos Frost’s suicide. You can expect him to come out swinging this week.”
Dare always had the ability to push through the emotions and coldly assess the situation.
She asked, “What are you going to do with Sue’s note?”
I said, “I’m going to publish it on the blog first thing in the morning.”
“Is that smart? Why bring Sue’s death into this mess? You’ve already been called a sleazy journalist. Won’t the post feed into that?”
“The note is relevant,” I said. “It’s how we put the attention back where it needs to be. My spidey sense is saying there’s more to all this than Bo Hines stealing a couple hundred thousand dollars. I’ve got to find out what before Frost, Hines, Wittman, and the bank take me down.”
Dare asked, “You are talking with Gravy, aren’t you? You can expect threats of lawsuits if you carry out this strategy.”
“Yes, Dare. I’ll be fine.” I wish I felt as self-assured as my words sounded.
After we washed the dishes, I kissed Dare on the cheek and asked her to see if she could find out any more about the falling out between Hines and Wittman. Then Big Boy and I headed back to the loft.
As I got the dog settled and started to work on my draft on the blog post regarding the suicide note, I received a text from Alphonse Tyndall.
“Need to talk. Can you meet me today instead of tomorrow? Hopjacks at 3?”
An hour later when I walked into Hopjacks I spotted Tyndall in the corner of the bar nearest the front windows.
“What’s up, Sheriff Razor?” I asked as I motioned to the waitress to bring me a Bud Light and sat down.
He smiled and said, “Thanks for seeing me on a Sunday afternoon, Mr. Publisher.”
“I needed the break from writing,” I said. “I don’t like sitting with my back to the window. I’m trusting that you’ll watch behind me.”
“No problem, Walker.” He paused as the beers were delivered. “I don’t like how Sheriff Frost is going after you in the media.”
I ordered some fries and made another mental note to eat healthier, just not on Sunday afternoons. Rain began to fall. The smokers at the tables on the sidewalk grabbed their beers and pizzas and scampered inside.
“I’ve dealt with this crap before,” I replied, hoping the words sounded more confident than I felt. The bandages around my ribs itched, but I fought off the urge to scratch them.
“You have nothing to do with Amos Frost’s death.”
I said, “But it helps the sheriff to take the focus off him and his administration.”
Tyndall put down his Guinness. “No, you’re not listening. Your newspaper had nothing to do with his brother’s suicide.”
“What are you talking about?”
He said, “What do you know about Amos Frost?”
“Good lawman. Popular with the street cops. Sort of the opposite of his older brother. Deacon in his church. Little League coach.” I took a swig of my beer and continued, “But his personal life may have been screwed up. Two ex-wives and working on a third. Possibly struggled with a ‘young stripper habit.’ That’s all I have.”
Tyndall nodded in approval. “Not bad. You do have pretty good sources, but there may be more. I suspect he was being blackmailed.”
I didn’t see that one coming. “Blackmailed? Fooling around with strippers isn’t a crime.”
Motioning for me to keep my voice down he said, “I didn’t say he committed a crime. However, his face did pop up in one of the videos of the porn ring we talked about the other day.”
If I could whistle, I would have. Instead, I signaled the waitress for another round of beers.
Tyndall explained that the film company had found a new revenue stream—letting members participate in its videos. For two hundred dollars, men and women could have sex with the “actors.”
“You pay a membership fee. Once or twice a month you get a text to go to some place in the two-county area. Usually, they give you a mask. But Frost was too drunk or too high and didn’t wear his.”
Mentioning the three hundred pound Amos Frost having sex made me cringe.
Tyndall continued, “All the time
