“Yep.” She grinned wider, pleased with the shock she’d delivered. “Bricey Presley herself. She showed him the bill of sale that the car was hers and she paid him in cash to dump the cement in it. She said she wanted it crushed. Colton came to me when he first heard there was a furor over the incident.”
“But why would she do that to her new car?” Tinkie and I chorused together.
“Not certain about that,” Debbie said. “I’m digging into it, but Colton seemed to think she was getting even with someone.”
“Even with herself?” Tinkie asked. “That makes no sense at all.”
“Are you going to run this story?” I asked.
Debbie frowned. “That’s tougher to decide than you might think. I know Colton. He’s pretty upset about this because Bricey is pretending that she wasn’t in on the dump. He said she’s threatening to sue him for the value of the car—she’s claiming she didn’t know anything about the load of cement. She’s hired a lawyer. Colton got a letter asking him to fork up the dough to replace the car.”
“But he has a signed contract, right?” Tinkie asked.
“Not exactly.” Debbie sighed. “Folks around here don’t always dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s. They operate on a handshake and a gentleman’s agreement.”
Folks in Zinnia were sometimes the same. It wasn’t smart, but it was how deals were struck in small-town Mississippi. “What’s Mr. Horn going to do?”
“Hire a lawyer. Try to defend himself. Bricey’s a cagey one. She hired him, paid in cash, never signed a contract or anything. Now it looks like he destroyed that car and is lying about why. And Bricey gets to play the victim, and it looks like she might get a new car on top of it.”
“Where could we find Mr. Horn?” I asked.
She gave us the address for his business on the outskirts of down. “He may not talk to you, but I’ll let him know you’re only looking for the truth.”
“Thanks, that would be helpful.” I did appreciate Debbie’s help.
Debbie picked up her notepad and pulled her glasses into place. She was ready to get to work. “Maybe I’ll see you later tonight at the flotilla. It’s going to be a lot of fun.”
“Great. We’re looking forward to it,” I said. “I’ve heard it’s a very gala affair.”
“Those boat owners have been decorating for over a week. It was a great competition for many years, until it was canceled back in the early 2000s.”
I was suddenly very interested in a history lesson. “Was there a reason it was canceled?” I asked.
Debbie shrugged one shoulder. “It takes a bunch of effort to keep all these events going. The Columbus downtown merchants manage to keep things going in town, but the flotilla involves a lot of work: someone has to coordinate the boats and make sure they’re decorated and in the proper order. Boating people sometimes like to tipple a bit, and boats and alcohol can be a dangerous combo. Darla had to get every boat captain to sign an oath not to drink.” She rolled her back and I heard several vertebrae snap. “And folks just get tired of putting in the time. It seemed like the same people were providing all the elbow grease every year. The younger folks weren’t stepping up to take on some of the work, so the flotilla was put on hold.”
“But they’re bringing it back this year,” Tinkie pointed out.
“Some new blood moved into town. Your hostess, Darla, has been instrumental in reviving the flotilla. It’s perfect for her, what with her B and B right on the river. She has a dock right there and her own boat. She knows the boat people, and they like and respond to her. You’re going to love it, and it’s great advertising for her!”
I was looking forward to being in a boat on the water on a brisk pre-Christmas night with Coleman. There was something romantic about the gentle rocking of a boat, especially one decorated with Christmas lights and garlands. “I’m eager to experience it.”
“Wait until you see the decorations. Folks go all out. Best to wear something warm, though,” she cautioned. “It gets cold on the water.”
“Will do. Thanks for the tip, and also thanks for calling Mr. Horn and laying the groundwork for us.”
“He’s a good guy in a tight spot. I hope you can clear him of any malicious intentions. And I’ll bet he never takes another job like that without a signed contract and photo documentation.”
I nodded as we left her office and headed back to the street.
Colton Horn was a good-looking man comfortable in his own skin. He nodded at both of us when we entered his office on the outskirts of town—a walk that was just long enough for Tinkie and me to develop a plan. It wasn’t exactly original. Per usual, she was the good cop and I was the bad cop.
In contrast to Debbie’s office, Colton’s was spartan and immaculately clean. I literally could have eaten off the floor, it was so spic-and-span. The top of his desk had one folder, open in front of him.
“Mr. Horn, did you fill the car in the parking lot at the Riverwalk with cement?” I started out bold and strong. That was what bad cops did.
He leaned back in his chair and assessed us.
“Don’t pay any attention to her,” Tinkie said, pointing at me. “She’s always a crank when she hasn’t had lunch. We’re just trying to get to the bottom of what’s going on in Columbus, and we heard a rumor that you’d been hornswoggled.”
“I get that you’re PIs. Debbie said you were looking for the truth, but I’m not so sure about that.” Once burned, twice shy, as the old saying went. Colton Horn wasn’t going to trust anyone who just walked in off the street. “Who are you working for?”
He was smarter than I’d hoped. “Doesn’t matter. You’re the one on the
