Poison Town Read online

  Derrick went through a mental list of the odds and ends he had to tie up before the evening deadline at The Dispatch and his date with Zenia. He had finally talked her into trying La Gloria’s, his favorite Cuban restaurant. But he was running behind because he’d spent most of the morning trying to track down the whereabouts of Barb and Emmett Doyle and Amy Sheets.

  He hadn’t had any luck on the Doyles but, oddly enough, had almost surely tracked down Amy’s mother on Facebook. With the help of the city search, he found a Rebekah Sheets in Columbus, Ohio. Although she had posted no photos and only had sixteen friends, she listed herself as the mother of Amy, Bruce, and Brendon.

  Derrick sent Rebekah Sheets a message on Facebook, introducing himself as a Dispatch reporter and stating that he was trying to track down Amy for some input about a story he was working on. He sent a similar message to Amy’s brother Bruce, who also had a Facebook page; the other brother seemed to be invisible. If Derrick didn’t hear anything quickly, he would search further for phone numbers, but he had run out of time.

  The nav indicated he was almost to Spivey Brinkman’s house. He recognized the street he and Jack had turned on the day before to get to the Randalls’ place. Sure enough, Spivey’s double-wide was just behind the Randall property.

  Derrick parked in front near the beige plastic mailbox. He headed for the door and heard dogs barking all around in the distance. Smoke from nearby furnaces and fireplaces permeated the air. It was a wooded neighborhood dotted with trees a hundred feet tall. Derrick figured that the smooth, unblemished blanket of snow covered a multitude of unkempt lawns, dirt, toys, and junk. Near Spivey’s trailer sat an old red clunker was parked with a torn ARMY bumper sticker and one that read Horn Broke—Watch for Finger.

  He went up the wooden steps and rapped at the aluminum door. The muffled beat of rock music reverberated from the rear of the small dwelling. He knocked harder.

  Finally the door opened, and Derrick got the full force of the music.

  “You must be Mr. Whittaker.” A young woman reached up from a wheelchair with neon pink wheels to shake hands. “Sorry about the music.”

  Derrick smiled and shook her hand. “Call me Derrick.”

  “Come in.” The girl backed her wheelchair away from the door. “My dad said you were coming.”

  Derrick entered and took his hat off. The pulse of the music pounded from the back of the house. “And you are …”

  “Jenness. Sorry about that.” She wheeled over to a small living area with a couch, two chairs, and a fake fireplace that was turned on. “Have a seat.” She was a slender girl with light skin, a beaming smile, and a beauty mark at the top corner of her mouth. “My dad should be here soon. He’s running errands.”

  “Okay.” Derrick wished she had told him at the door that her father wasn’t home. He wouldn’t have gone in, alone with a young girl; it didn’t look or feel right.

  “Do you know Jack Crittendon?” she said.

  “Sure, yes. He and I are good friends. We work together.”

  Derrick smelled something. Not cigarettes or cigars … marijuana?

  “He wrote a story about me in your paper.” She smiled brightly and curled her shiny brown hair behind an ear.

  “Oh yeah, that’s right.” Her gray Yale sweatshirt made sense now. “You’re the Yale girl. Criminal law, right?”

  “That’s me!”

  The bass from the music rumbled beneath Derrick’s feet. It was The Pretenders, some seriously old stuff.

  “So you graduate this fall?” He practically had to yell.

  “From East High.” She nodded. “I can’t wait. Pardon me for a moment, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  She shot Derrick a forced smile and wheeled down a narrow hallway toward the back of the house.

  In about thirty seconds the volume went down, and Derrick heard two female voices.

  Jenness rolled back into the room and stopped near the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink? We still have coffee on. I’m actually surprised my dad’s not back; he’s usually quite punctual.”

  “No thanks. Maybe I should call him?”

  “You can if you want. So you’re here to talk about Demler-Vargus.”

  “That’s right …” Derrick reached for his phone.

  “Give him another minute. I’m sure he’ll be right back.” Jenness rolled over and parked closer to him this time. “They really are hurting people, you know. It’s not right. My dad knows a lot of people whose lives have been ruined by Demler-Vargus.”

  “That’s what I want to talk to him about.”

  “My dream is to come back here someday and make things right for all our neighbors who’ve been adversely affected.”

  Derrick liked her spunkiness. “So you’d file a lawsuit against them …”

  “You’re darn right. I’ve told Daddy that if someone would take the time to research back far enough, it could be a class-action lawsuit where all these poor people around here finally get redress for their suffering.”

  A girl in her early twenties slinked into the room like Catwoman. Derrick had the impression she had been standing silently in the hall, listening.

  “Hey.” Colored tattoos swirled up her arms, around her neck, and on her calves. She had short jet-black hair with a white streak on one side, a diamond nose stud, and various silver hoops dangling from her ears. She swirled a red Tootsie Pop in her mouth. “You’re a reporter.”

  Derrick stood. “Derrick Whittaker.” He reached his hand out. She eyed it, then his face, then simply gave his hand a soft pet, rolling her fingers over it. She gyrated to the window and peered out. “Another beautiful day in paradise.” She wore a bright aqua T-shirt and tight black knee-high yoga pants that showed off her figure.

  “This is my sister, Tatum,” Jenness said with a pink face.

  “So … Derrick.” Tatum turned back to the small room. “What do you want to talk to my daddy about?”

  “I told you—Demler-Vargus,” Jenness said.

  “Since when is the Dispatch interested in Demler-Vargus?”

  “Tatum, don’t start.”

  “Hey, I’m just trying to help the poor guy. Save him some time.”

  Jenness pursed her lips.

  “They must not have a heck of a lot of faith in you.” Tatum’s mouth curled sarcastically, and she lowered her gaze at Derrick.

  Derrick squinted. “Pardon me?”

  Tatum laughed. “Anybody they’d send out here on this wild goose chase must be a real prize—”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Jenness said. “She does this to everybody.”

  Derrick was almost certain he smelled pot.

  “What?” Tatum threw her hands up. “He should know what he’s getting into.”

  “You’ve said enough. What he needs to know, Daddy will tell him. I’m sorry, Mr. Whittaker. It seems like that’s all I ever do is apologize for Tatum.”

  “She does have my curiosity up,” Derrick said. “What do you know about Demler-Vargus, Tatum?”

  “It’s just some in-family talk”—Jenness shot a glare at Tatum—“that I’m sure our father will tell you all about.”

  Tatum worked her way over to Derrick. “I see you’re not married, Derrick.”

  “Engaged,” he said, feeling especially uncomfortable now that Catwoman had come closer. “Jenness, can I get your dad’s cell number? I’m going to give him a quick call, make sure he’s on his way.”

  He punched the number Jenness dictated and got an automated response telling him to leave a message. He walked away from the girls, toward the window. “Hey, Mr. Brinkman, this is Derrick Whittaker with the Dispatch. I’m at your house for our appointment. I waited as long as I could, but I’ve got to run. Give me a call, and we’ll set up another time, okay? Thanks.”

  He clicked o
ff and looked at his watch.

  “I’m going to take off. I’ll reschedule with your dad and probably see you girls again, okay?” He handed each of them his Dispatch business card. “Anything at all about Demler-Vargus, give me a call.”

  He got to the car, started it, got the heat cranking, and went through the messages on his phone. Nothing important. Then he checked Facebook and found a message from Amy’s mom:

  Mr. Whittaker,

  We have not had contact with Amy and are unsure of her whereabouts. Sorry we could not be of help.

  Rebekah Sheets

  Derrick punched in a quick response:

  Mrs. Sheets,

  Thank you for your prompt response. May I ask Amy’s address the last time you knew of her whereabouts? And when that would have been?

  Thank you again for your help.

  Derrick Whittaker

  Derrick scanned the snowy neighborhood one last time in hopes of seeing Spivey Brinkman driving up, but no such luck. Jenness’s face was pressed low against one of the windows, which was half covered in condensation. She saw him looking back and waved. Derrick shot a wave as he rolled away.

  That Tatum was a piece of work. What had she meant about a wild goose chase? Those girls knew something. Derrick needed to see Spivey Brinkman.

  His phone rang. Cecil.

  “Whittaker.”

  “Where the heck are you?”

  “Heading back from the east side.”

  “A train derailed in Royston. I need you over there pronto. You got your camera?”

  “Yeah. Where in Royston?”

  “Take Highway 21 all the way. After it intersects with Bowman, go to mile marker 138. You’ll see it.”

  “On my way.”

  “Whittaker.”

  “Yeah?”

  “An hour a day on Demler-Vargus, you got me?”

  “Got it.”

  “No more.”

  Chapter 13

  Travis had never cared for Roxanne, LJ’s ex-wife. Even before LJ married her, Travis had a feeling deep in his skinny bones that she was trouble. Now she bustled about their kitchen, fixing things up and chattering away as if she were part of the family again. She claimed she’d heard about Daddy’s poor health and rumors of the break-in and had to get over and see what she could do to help. Of course, nothing stayed a secret too long in Trenton City, and Travis was convinced she was just there to confirm the latest gossip.

  They were all there—Daddy, pleased as peaches to be sprawled out on his corduroy recliner with a stomach full of Roxanne’s peanut-butter pie; LJ, still stomping and steaming over everything that had happened the past two days; Bo, following his momma around like a long-lost pup; and Roxanne, with her tight Wranglers and frizzy brown hair, teasing old LJ, who still really loved her, deep down.

  Travis pulled his father’s shoes off and handed him the brown blanket his mother had knitted for him just before she passed. Galen was supposed to be on the portable oxygen machine, but he would have nothing to do with it. Instead, he had his old transistor radio up to his ear, tuning into WDUC, the local AM station.

  “This always happens when Momma comes around.” Bo wandered into the TV room, looking over his shoulder. “Chores, chores, chores. You forget what it’s like till she shows up again.”

  “Tell me about it,” LJ said. “Woman’s a slave driver.”

  “You love it, both of you,” Travis said.

  LJ and Bo exchanged a sheepish glance. Those boys wished they could be a family again, Travis knew, but Roxanne had proven she couldn’t be trusted. Travis never wanted to see LJ get hurt like that again.

  “Bo, flick them back floodlights on, would ya?” LJ said.

  Once his son was out of the room, LJ whispered to Travis, “Daddy’s shotgun’s loaded—hall closet. Just in case they decide to come back.”

  Travis nodded, hoping there would be no more trouble.

  “I wish Coon would hurry up and seal this deal. I don’t like this whole mess,” said LJ.

  Bo returned, snatched his handheld from the end table, and dropped onto the couch.

  “I just don’t get it,” LJ said. “If the guy in black didn’t have nothin’ to do with the poisoning, who did?”

  “We know that for a fact?” Daddy said.

  “Yessir. He was just visiting his momma,” LJ said.

  “So he said,” Travis mumbled.

  LJ turned on a dime. “So he said!”

  “Yeah … that’s what he told me.”

  “But you checked it out …”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You made sure that lady’s in the hospital?” LJ’s one big, blazing eye bore into Travis and read the answer in his brother’s blank face.

  “Travis, you idiot!” LJ scrambled for the phone. “What the heck were you thinking?”

  “I don’t know. I … I … I believed the man.”

  “Watch your lip.” Daddy eyeballed LJ, who was punching at his phone like a mad man.

  Roxanne rushed into the room. “What’s wrong, what’s wrong, what’s wrong?”

  “Would you be quiet!” LJ said. “What did the man say his momma’s name was?”

  “Audrey. Audrey Jacobs,” said Travis, who felt sick as a dog.

  LJ stuck the phone to his ear and darted out of the room, mumbling as he went.

  “Shoot, he had to have been tellin’ the truth.” Travis was bewildered.

  Bo patted Travis on the back. “Don’t worry, Uncle Travis, I know just how you feel.” Roxeanne insisted on knowing what was going on, and Bo gave her a thirty-second recap.

  “Sheesh, Travis, what were you thinking?” she said.

  “Shhh,” Daddy said, as they listened while LJ asked to be connected to Audrey Jacobs’s room at the hospital.

  Travis heard him say, “Are you sure?” and he knew what was coming.

  LJ filled the doorway looking like the creature from the black lagoon.

  “Ain’t never been no Audrey Jacobs at the hospital. That was our man.”

  * * *

  Before the funeral, Jack grabbed his notepad and headed downstairs to find a quiet place where he could call Derrick.

  Margaret approached him in the hallway, wearing a formal black dress, pearl necklace, and black high heels, which would be a challenge in the snow. She was carrying a pair of black leather gloves; she would need them today.

  “You look very pretty, Margaret. Here, let me straighten your collar. It’s wanting to stand up in back.” Jack touched her shoulders gently.

  “Thank you. You look handsome, Jack.”

  Margaret reeked of alcohol. And it didn’t smell like her usual peppermint schnapps. This was stronger. Her red lipstick was uneven on the top lip. Jack would get Pam to help her fix it and to find some mouthwash.

  Rebecca and Faye came out of the kitchen, mouths full.

  “Girls, we just ate. What could you possibly be into?” Jack said.

  “MawMaw has a gigantic tin of candy mint sticks dipped in chocolate,” Rebecca said.

  “They are de-licious,” Faye added. “Would you like one, Daddy? MawMaw?”

  Margaret laughed heartily, not feeling any pain. “They’re fine, Jack. Let them be.”

  If this was any indication of what she was going to be like when she came to their house, it was going to be a challenging few weeks. St. Edward’s was full and had put Margaret on a waiting list, so whether she liked it or not, she would be returning to Trenton City with them.

  “When do you think we should leave?” she asked.

  That was new. Usually she told him that sort of thing. Jack looked at his watch.

  “I say we go in about fifteen minutes. I need to make one quick call first.”

  Margaret waved clumsily toward the back of the ho
use. “Go in the den where you’ll have some privacy. You’ll be fine in there.”

  Sheesh. She was half in the bag.

  After a quiet word to Pam suggesting she give her mom a little assistance, Jack entered the den, his father-in-law’s space. It was still and silent. His dress shoes tapped loudly on the dark wood floor. How very odd that Benjamin would never again touch the books on the room’s many shelves, or scribble a note at the antique desk, or take a lazy afternoon nap on the leather couch.

  Jack parted the curtains and peered out at the snowy backyard where Pam had played as a child. He bent over, lifted the cuff of his pants, and tightened the Velcro on the holster. The last thing he needed was for that thing to drop off while he was carrying the casket.

  He phoned Derrick and found he had been sidetracked the day before by a train wreck Barton had sent him to cover. It turned out to be minor, just some cargo cars that tipped during a track change—no injuries.

  “The big news is Spivey Brinkman’s missing,” Derrick said. “He never showed for our appointment. I met his daughters. Hung around for a while and left. I talked to Jenness today, and he never came home—been gone over a day now. He’s been known to drink but hasn’t for almost two years.”

  “Of all times to fall off the wagon.”

  “Jenness doesn’t think so. She called the cops. But because he used to disappear when he drank, they’re not going to consider him missing until three days go by. Jenness thinks Demler-Vargus has something to do with it.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “No. Those girls know more than they’re telling.”

  “Maybe Spivey just got nervous about meeting with you. Maybe he has started drinking.”

  “The girls say no way. He’s kicked the bottle. And he wouldn’t leave overnight without telling them.”

  “Man. What is going on?”

  “I know, right? Barton asked me last night how many hours I put in on Demler-Vargus. I told him I wanted more; he said not yet.”

  “Hmm.” Jack sat on the couch and looked over his notes. He told Derrick he had phoned the Randalls and learned about the man in black who lied to Travis in the parking lot.