Southern Poison (6 page)

I found his hand. “I’m here to help.”

His fingers tightened around mine. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

A thermos of
spicy Bloody Marys would have been excellent liquid courage for my foray into the mobile food cart business but I resolved to drink bottled water instead. Sobriety might come in handy. I’d familiarized myself with the compact grill, lunchbox-sized steamer, cash register, and more important, the electronic toys Ashton had installed, including hidden video cams and a nifty miniature fluoroscope imaging system mounted inconspicuously beneath the fold-down serving counter on the passenger side of the truck. With the push of a button, it would give me a flash outline of a customer’s body on a small notebook computer, which of course would reveal any metal objects—translation: weaponry. It is the same technology that has some airline passengers complaining about a lack of privacy, since fluoroscope images can reveal surprising detail of private body parts. I could learn, for example, whether a walk-up male customer tucked it to the left or the right as I served his coffee with extra sugar. Not that I would use an expensive antiterrorism contraption for such petty purposes. Unless I got really bored. Or the man was particularly hunky.

The drive to Sunny Point carried me through Southport and the passing scenery could have been any small beach town with a hodgepodge of shops and lots of signage: directional road signs for the ferry that cruised between Southport and Fort Fisher, colorful advertisements hawking sunset cruises, kayak rentals, and deep-sea fishing excursions, and an array of real estate billboards. I cruised past a few groceries, the all-important high-pressure car wash to remove sand and salt, and a liquor store, which most certainly had all the fixings for a good Bloody Mary. I ignored the impulse to turn in. A mix of older, modest homes with crushed oyster shell drives and newer, much bigger homes with elaborate entrances occupied the land bordering the Cape Fear River. A touch of early post-dawn chill blew from an awakening sky and, other than the fact that it was six thirty in the morning, it was a pretty decent day to sell food on the side of the road.

I reached my destination and swung in, just off the intersection of Highway 133 and Sunny Point Road. A large brown sign on elevated posts declared:
UNITED STATES ARMY MILITARY OCEAN TERMINAL SUNNY POINT MAIN GATE
. Just for kicks, I continued east toward the bowels of the ammo dump. It was another mile to the two real main gates: one for general admission and the other for truck deliveries. The general gate was closed up tight so I forked right to the other gate, which was guarded by several square badges from AJAT Security. They weren’t soldiers, but they weren’t your average contract security workers, either. There were five of them and these well-paid men were armed with everything from holstered semiautomatic pistols to a Mossberg shotgun, and that’s just what was visible. During the Clinton administration when military bases across the country closed, a large number of military positions were eliminated. In many cases, they were simply replaced by civilians.

“Hi, guys.” I gave them my friendly and eager-to-please smile
from the window of my oversized, boxy truck. “I’m taking over for Mama Jean and I know she serves a lot of people who work here, but I’m not sure where she parked,” I lied, knowing she parked a mile back, just off the intersection.

A man with the last name of Henson—according to his name badge—leaned back on his heels and grinned. “Looks like Jean is leaving her business in very good hands, Miss …”

“I’m Jill. Jill Burns.”

“Well, Jill, you’ll need to park this baby off-property.” The man leaning against a guard shack paid close attention but his face remained impassive, almost hostile. Three others openly followed the conversation, but were content to let their buddy deal with me. Henson lowered his voice. “That’s the official answer. But really, you can probably get away with setting up just inside the first gate you came through, by the intersection. Mama Jean’s been parking there for years, so I doubt anybody will hassle you.”

“Great, thanks.”

All five men watched as I pulled forward and made a slow U-turn. I waved as I passed. Nobody waved back, but Henson nodded once.

I drove back toward the main intersection and angled the truck into a well-used horseshoe on the side of the road. As Mama Jean instructed during our telephone training session, I prepped everything before I flipped up my side flaps and lowered out the serving counter. When I opened for business, a few cars stopped almost immediately, and not surprisingly, they inquired about Mama Jean and her condition. She was fine, I reported, and resting comfortably. By nine o’clock, I’d small-talked myself into a slightly dazed, smiling stupor. And I’d only checked out somebody’s private parts once. My first three hours back into undercover work and all I’d learned was that some men don’t tuck it either way. Apparently, straight down works, too.

I also learned from one particularly gossipy group of three car-pooling women that Mama Jean consistently overcooked eggs and had a reputation for serving stale biscuits, which explained why most people purchased only coffee or bottled juice and prepackaged muffins. The preparation instruction manual supplied by a helpful food distributor offered several nifty hints, such as, place the thawed-out biscuits in the steamer for twelve seconds before serving and use the round egg mold for perfectly cooked eggs every time. Apparently, Mama Jean hadn’t bothered to read the manual, which meant that nobody would expect too much out of me. I had nowhere to go but up with my breakfast cooking skills.

By the time I dropped the truck at the designated warehouse, swapped it for my economy-sized rental car, and drove home, exhaustion had set in and it wasn’t yet eleven in the morning. I grabbed the newspaper and a beverage and had just gotten comfortable in a chaise lounge on my outside balcony when Soup phoned.

“How was your first day on the vomit van?”

“I learned that sometimes they just hang straight down. And I made nineteen dollars in tips.”

“I’m not going to ask about your newfound knowledge on perpendicularity, and you should probably turn over all of your tips.”

I planned to turn the bills over, all right. As I stuffed them in my wallet. “What’s up?”

“Hacked into Lady Lizzy’s computer.”

“The gossip columnist?” Lady Lizzy is who locals turn to for the latest Wilmington-area scoop. She has a column, a radio talk show, and a blog.

“Yep. Her home computer is set to allow remote access, probably so she can get in from her work computer. Or maybe to get technical help. Anyway, I tiptoed in and found her calendar of upcoming events to be most interesting.”

I popped the tab on a Coors Light, promising myself that it would
be my only one for the day. Even though it wasn’t yet lunchtime, it sure felt like it. “Soup, you’re amazing.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“And you’re cocky.”

“Like I said, tell me—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know that I’m going to owe you. Watcha got?”

“Using the
Star-News
and the
State Port Pilot
event blurbs, the chamber of commerce calendar, and Lizzy’s juicy stuff, I’ve compiled a list of potentially suspect activities. Those with celebs, high-profile politicians, and a large planned attendance. Hundred-mile radius and two months out, as requested.”

“With exact dates and locations?”

“Of course. Even have the contact person or event planner for most.”

The beer cooled my insides as it slid down and pooled satisfyingly in my stomach while my brain wrapped itself around the good news I’d just received. I’d have to get a Sunny Point delivery schedule along with the rail and road routes used. “So then, I can map out the location of the events and see if any correspond with travel routes of incoming shipments to the ammo dump.”

“You betcha. If you can work that in between your bridge clubs and bingo nights.”

“For your information, even when I do manage to retire for real, I won’t be hanging out in a bingo hall. And I don’t know how to play bridge,” I said.

“You could always form a shuffleboard league.”

“I owe you, guy.”

“No shit,” he said before hanging up.

Daydreming, Peggy Lee
Cooke let her outstretched palms caress the rows of hanging gowns as she roamed the aisles of Llewellyn’s Bridal Shoppe. She loved the satiny feel of the fabrics and the delicate lace and beads that could make a person appear sexy and virginal all at the same time. She stopped to watch a young woman and her mother, undeniably jealous of the fact that this girl already had a wedding date. Not to mention a mother who was obviously involved in her daughter’s life.

Peggy couldn’t stand the stepmother who’d raised her and she wouldn’t have the benefit of a doting mother-in-law, either. Chuck’s parents were both killed in Bangladesh, along with more than two hundred other employees and residents, during an industrial explosion. The only reason Chuck didn’t die with them, he’d told her, is because he lived in the States at the time, earning a chemical engineering degree. Bond Chemical had transferred his father from Connecticut to head up the new overseas operation. It was a lucky career advancement, people said back then. But now, everyone
knew better. Chuck had spit on the employer-paid life insurance benefit check with plans to send it back when he realized that he could put the money to good use. Combined with the settlement funds from a class-action lawsuit, it was enough capital to start a business. Today, Chuck’s company was hugely successful and, thanks to his old Ivy League fraternity friends, boasted a heavy-hitting client list that included several government contracts. But Chuck still thought of his dead parents every day, he’d confided to Peggy. He imagined the terror they must have felt during the last minutes of their lives. And every flashback of the parents he lost made Chuck even more angry at all the manufacturers who continued to churn out loads of nonessentials for product-hungry Americans—everything from expensive cosmetics to cheap trinkets. It was all so senseless, he’d said, and Peggy agreed. People were materialistic and wasteful, he’d explained, and Peggy agreed. She agreed with everything he voiced. She loved him. And even though Chuck continued to mourn, Peggy knew she could help him heal.

Watching the mother-daughter pair shop, Peggy experienced a flash of resentment at having been cheated out of the mother-in-law she’d never know. She missed Chuck’s parents, too, and she’d never even met them.

“We can have any gown delivered right to the wedding location,” a clerk was telling the pair. “It’s a residence, yes?” The woman rattled off a street address and the clerk replied that she could deliver to any location within thirty miles. They discussed details of the wedding after which the mother dismissed the sales clerk with a few curt words.

“Mom, there is plenty of time, really,” Peggy heard the college coed-looking girl say. “My gown is the main thing that matters.”

“Your wedding is next month. That’s only three weeks away, and right now, everything matters! We need to finalize the menu by tomorrow. The wedding planner is threatening to quit if we don’t
sit down with him and finish choosing the flowers and decorations. And whichever gown you get, it will probably have to be altered. Seriously, Janie, there is a lot to do.”

The girl held a bright white strapless gown against her body and studied the effect in a full-length mirror. “You’re just freaking out because Daddy’s entourage will be there. Everything has to be perfect since it’s a great photo op for the press. And of course you want to impress all his supporters, with your big dreams of being the first lady if he actually runs in the next election. And the mayor of New York City? Whoop-di-do. Daryl and I could care less if he’s there, even if he is best friends with Daddy.” The girl spun sideways to get a better view of the gown’s detachable train. “You don’t care about what I want.”

The mother turned her daughter around by the shoulders and spoke in a low controlled voice, but it was loud enough so that Peggy could keep eavesdropping. “First of all, you will
not
speak to me like that. And second of all, your father and I are spending a fortune on this wedding. The only reason we’re doing it here is because it’s what you wanted, even though I’ve had the Starlight Roof at the Waldorf-Astoria reserved for a year. If this was all about what I wanted, you’d be getting married in Manhattan instead of here. So quit being bratty about everything and for God’s sake, pick out a gown already!”

The girl sighed, dropped the dress. “I’m sorry, Mom. I like the other dress, the one they’re holding at that little bridal boutique on Oleander Drive.”

Mother and daughter hustled out the front door without bothering to thank anyone. Peggy picked up the discarded strapless number and held it up with one hand while scrunching her hair in a makeshift twist with the other.

“Would you like to try it on?” a saleswoman asked.

Peggy checked the price tag. Twenty-seven hundred and sixty-five dollars. “No thanks, not today.”

She left the store with a smile, thinking that soon, a three-thousand-dollar dress wouldn’t be a problem. Heck, when her time came, Chuck would spend
thirty-three
thousand dollars for a dress if that’s what she wanted. Once Project Antisis took off, there would be no limit to what she could have. They would be rich.

It was a
great day and then it wasn’t, and then it was again. My used—but new to me—BMW X5 arrived and she was a beauty. Shiny black on the outside and creamy soft tan leather on the inside. To my delight, Floyd had even put a brand-new set of tires on it for me. I found a note in the glove box that read: “Try not to get this one shot up, will you? Floyd.” With Ox riding shotgun and Lindsey in the back, I immediately went for a test drive through Wilmington’s historic residential district and fell in love. The delivery made my day.

But then Ashton ruined a perfectly good natural high by refusing to give me the information I wanted. I didn’t need the details on incoming or outgoing container loads of ammo, he told me. Furthermore, he said, I had no need to know the routes they’d travel, much less the time of day they’d be traversing rail or road. Before disconnecting, Ashton reminded me that I was in place as a trained observer, not an investigator.
Whatever
, as Lindsey would say. Simply asking for information is the easy way to acquire it, but there are plenty of other methods.