Southern Poison (7 page)

“Fine, that’s just fine,” I grumbled to Ox. After our test drive, Lindsey had disappeared to explore the riverwalk on foot and Ox and I had plopped down at a round table outside the Block. The Block’s patio is constructed of wide bricks over a bed of sand, and small greenish brown chameleons darted among the tables and chairs, hunting insects only they could see. Word is, they eat mosquitoes, too, so I like the reptiles. “If SWEET wants to pay me nineteen hundred dollars a week to serve freakin’ egg biscuits out of a truck, then that’s what I’ll do.”

“Uh-huh,” Ox said. “You’ll keep digging.”

I wiped at a miniscule stream of perspiration that intermittently dropped between my breasts, tickling the crevice over my breast-bone. July is supposedly the hottest month in Wilmington, but August always seems hotter to me. Something about the month of August feels sensual, or maybe the long days are just plain sweaty and sticky. Perhaps it depends upon one’s mood. Despite the day’s heat index, though, outdoor breezes and stimulating smells had drawn a gathering of patio customers.

Relaxing beneath the shade of an umbrella and passively observing the activity around us was indulgent, and aside from being disgruntled, I physically felt perfectly content. “Ashton said they are closely monitoring all movement of munitions and have added extra security. Like that’s a good reason I can’t have the requested route and delivery schedule.”

“With a wave, Ox acknowledged a couple of regulars entering the pub. “Guess Ashton is big on the need-to-know-basis concept.”

I handed over the calendar of social events that Soup compiled. “You make anything of this?”

Ox scanned the data. The list was comprehensive and included political fund-raisers, charitable fund-raisers, grand-opening events, various festivals, a number of private functions, and an invitation-only showing of a soon-to-be-released film that had been shot in
Wilmington. We discussed the movie—a harmless romantic comedy—and went over each event in some detail.

“What are the three double-starred entries?” Ox said.

“They came from Lady Lizzy’s computer. Scheduled events marked with stars, but no additional details. Based on her columns, I’d guess they are happenings where somebody big is expected to attend. A celebrity, maybe.”

“Think the three events are connected?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Maybe we should go talk to her.”

“Sure,” I agreed. “But we’ll need something to trade. Lizzy won’t give anything away unless she gets something in return. And we certainly can’t mention the phrase ’terrorist attack’ or she’d write a panic column that would evacuate the entire peninsula.”

Ox poured some ice water over a thick napkin and wiped the back of his neck. Either I was sun-drunk, or the move was sexy. Undeniably sexy. Crazy, abandon-all-reason, undeniably sexy. It made me want to finish what he started by wiping down his face and chest, slowly, with an icy cold cloth. Like I said, August is a sensual month.

“So, back to my original question.” I held up the stapled papers and shook them. “You make anything of this list?”

“Other than the logical assumptions we’ve already discussed? No.”

I cut my eyes up to the sky. “What about them?”

“The spirits?”

“Yeah, your protective spirits, your instincts, your uniquely accurate gut feelings? All of them. What do they say about my list?”

Ox leaned back to reposition his legs, crossing them at the ankles after kicking off a pair of leather boat shoes. He wore Bermuda shorts and a nearly hairless, well-muscled leg brushed mine when he settled into his new position. I almost wanted to forget about work in lieu of determining how my relatively light skin would
look next to his golden-olive pigmentation. The vivid thought pricked at my nerve endings. All of them.

Ox caressed my bare leg with a naked foot. “Your own instincts are just fine, Jersey Barnes, and you should trust them. What are they telling you right now?”

I slid my feet out of their sandals and returned the toe caress. “That playing footsies with my best friend and business partner is much more fun than thinking about terrorists?”

The arch of his right foot traveled up the inside of my left leg, stopping just below my knee. A vibration of energy continued upward. My eyes closed in response and when I opened them, Ox was staring at my mouth. His eyes radiated pure appetite.

“Want to play more than footsies?” he said.

In high school, we’d simply been too young to concern ourselves with sex and were quite content to hit each other with gloved fists in the boxing ring as he taught me how to fight. My recollections fast-forwarded to five years ago, when he’d divorced and moved to Wilmington. The desire had revved up on several occasions, but there had always been some germane reason to avoid sex with each other. Mainly, I suppose, we didn’t want to mess up a good thing. But now, the August heat had disabled all reasoning capabilities and I couldn’t think. To heck with worrying about ruining a friendship.

“That’s a most enticing suggestion, Duke Oxendine.”

We headed upstairs to my bedroom, stripped off every thread of clothing, and didn’t emerge until the late afternoon heat gave way to a pastel-colored duskish sky. We knew each other better than anyone else in the entire world and the physical closeness, mouth against mouth, skin against skin, culminated a twenty-seven-year friendship. My earlier prediction had been accurate: sex with Ox is indescribable.

Ox’s scent clung
to the sensors in my nose and my aura hovered somewhere near giddy. I was in such a good mood that I didn’t even mind my unplanned return to undercover work. It had taken several shifts on the roach coach for me to fall into a comfortable rhythm, and more important, for the regulars to become chummy with me. They stopped in clumps and hung around for several minutes to laugh, bitch, and talk about their upcoming workdays. I’d identified three civilians who were on Ashton’s persons of interest list, but all seemed like ordinary hard-working tax-paying citizens to me and none, according to the fluoroscope, were packing heat. Why they’d been identified as POIs made no sense to me, but as instructed, I completed my daily reports and e-mailed them from the onboard laptop computer. In addition to keeping a vehicle traffic count and gleaning intelligence information during five-minute chunks of conversation, I became a master with the grill—using the egg molds—and customers started ordering breakfast biscuits. Just for kicks, I ran a two-for-one special and discovered
a direct correlation between free food and the number of bills in my tip jar.

Into my ninth or tenth morning on duty, I sat on a stool inside Mama Jean’s truck, skimming the newspaper, when John’s sedan pulled in. He is the AJAT contractor who heads up day-to-day security at MOTSU, but unlike the gate guards, he doesn’t wear a uniform and looks pretty darn good in a white button-down and tie.

“Hey, Jill,” he called through the serving window. “You still doing two-for-one biscuits? If so, I’ll take a couple of sausage.”

I guessed him to be in his late forties, even though a muscular body and entirely flat stomach made him appear younger. He’d passed Ashton’s background check and hadn’t been identified as anything other than what he appeared to be. Still, since he was in a position to oversee the movement of shipments through Sunny Point, I’d been paying him special attention in hopes of learning something that resembled a clue.

“For you? Sure.” I pulled out two precooked frozen sausage patties and tossed them on the grill. “What are you up to today?”

“The usual. Shipments come and shipments go. I keep everything secure during the process.”

“Drinking coffee this morning?” I asked and shifted into wide-eyed, admiring bimbette mode.

“Please.”

I served his coffee and added three creamers, just like he drank it. “You make your job sound so easy. But it must be high pressure. I mean, it’s a lot of responsibility, right?”

He grinned. “Somebody’s got to do it.”

The sausage patties started to sizzle so I flipped them and dropped a few biscuits into the steamer. Twelve seconds later a sounder buzzed. I removed the biscuits, added the sausage, and stuck each in a foil wrapper.

I punched some numbers into the cash register. “That’s three dollars and eighty-five cents.”

He produced a five and told me to keep the change.

I gave him my earnest smile. “Thanks.”

“Why don’t you come out here and sit with me for a minute while I eat?”

I’d added four folding plastic chairs to the roach coach supplies, and set them up outside Mama Jean’s truck every morning, along with a small plastic table that was perfect for setting drinks on.

“Sure,” I agreed. It was nearing time for me to close, so there probably wouldn’t be any additional sales for the day.

We discussed the hot temperatures, last weekend’s king mackerel fishing tournament, and a newspaper article about the expanded walking paths at Orton Plantation and Gardens. He finished his second biscuit before broaching the subject of me.

“So tell me, Jill, I’m curious.” He blew on his coffee before sipping it and I noticed that he was missing part of his ring finger, enough to make it shorter than his pinky. “How did you end up working for Mama Jean?”

I’d already been asked the same question several times. “I heard about the job through a temp agency and the hours are perfect for me. I serve a few biscuits, muffins, and coffee and then I’ve got the rest of the day off to do whatever I want. I paint, for example. Nothing I’d show anybody, but I enjoy throwing some oil colors on a canvas.”

“You’re an artist, then. But working for Mama Jean can’t pay all that well.”

“Pays enough for me. Besides, I don’t want a real job. If I had one of those, I’d have to actually work.” I made an icky face. “Yuk.”

He laughed, sipped more coffee. “You’re a lot of fun, Jill. What say we meet for a drink this evening, after I finish my shift? Nothing fancy. Just a cocktail and a snack somewhere.”

“Sure.” There could be worse things than having a drink with an athletic and charming fellow. Plus, if I could get a few drinks in him, I might learn something useful. I gave him the mobile number that Ashton had issued me. It rang into a nifty slim camera phone, which also served as a GPS tracking device so that SWEET could keep up with me. Of course, it only worked if the phone was powered on.

Nobody else stopped for food or coffee so I closed up shop and headed to the warehouse where I kept the truck parked. The day hadn’t yet warmed up to hot status, so I drove home from the warehouse in my X5 with all the windows down and sunroof open, thoroughly enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. My light mood dissipated when I arrived at the Block to find Ashton. It was probably not good news.

“Mama Jean is dead,” he said. “Her neighbor found her on the sofa, unresponsive. Cause of death not yet known, but it doesn’t appear to be a homicide.”

I retrieved a couple bottled waters and joined him at a table. “You believe that?”

“I just saw her yesterday to give her your week’s deposit. She was perfectly fine then. Almost bubbly. Told me that she felt great and had even stopped taking the prescribed painkillers.”

“What’s your take?”

He grimaced. “Something isn’t right. Far as Mama Jean knew, I own a temp agency and provided you to work the truck. She was thrilled with everything, especially the fact that I would personally drop by once a week to bring her money. Oh, she also said that you’ve increased breakfast sales thirty percent and that I should give you a raise.”

My shoulders went up. “Can’t argue with that.”

“Mentioned that she earned thirty-five to forty dollars a day in her tip jar, between breakfast and lunch. Said you were probably
making twenty a day, just doing breakfast.” His head cocked slightly and he squinted at me through raised eyebrows.

“There’s a tip jar?” I said.

The brows went down and he shook his head. “Is there a chance that your cover has been compromised?”

“I don’t see how.” I’d been careful and always made sure I wasn’t followed when going to and from the warehouse, where the food truck was garaged. And while the Block is a popular Wilmington hangout, people working and living around Southport had plenty of their own hangouts and rarely traveled to Wilmington just for a meal. Plus, even if a Sunny Point employee did spot me at the Block, they’d have no reason to suspect I owned the place.

My handler frowned. “There will be an obituary in
The State Port Pilot.”

I nodded.

“She lived in a mobile home on Long Beach. Local PD is handling the investigation, but I’ve got one of our people on it and another overseeing the autopsy. You’ll be updated shortly. Meanwhile, let me know if you make any connections with anyone who might have motive.”

I nodded again and Ashton—never one to waste time or words—disappeared without bidding me good-bye. I felt sad for a woman I’d never met in person and wondered what she might have known that could have gotten her killed. Mama Jean had been serving food along roadsides and at construction sites around Southport for more than fifteen years. She’d experienced firsthand the new construction growth and she knew a lot of locals. And since working the truck, I’d learned that people treated me like a hairdresser or cab driver, when it came to talking. They disclosed things they’d probably never say to a coworker or a neighbor. Perhaps Mama Jean had learned something that could have been dangerous to someone. My head buzzed with ifs and unknowns. I changed clothes—stuffing
my boobs into my favorite hot-pink sports bra—and headed to the gym for a weight workout. I threw a pair of flip-flops into my bag so I could go for a manicure and pedicure afterward.

I
met John at Fishy Fishy Cafe in Southport and was pleased to see that he looked even better in jeans and a Tommy Bahama silk shirt than he did in business attire. All other things being equal, it never hurt to have nice scenery while doing undercover work. Or eat great food.

“Wow,” John said when he saw me in a tan linen skirt and wedge sandals. My everyday piece, a.45 caliber Glock, was concealed inside a matching short-sleeve cropped jacket that buttoned at the waist. The getup was complimented by an ultra-low-cut stretchy white top with beaded trim. Since I have the big implants, I figure that I may as well show them off and the majority of my dress-up clothes do just that. “Don’t you look beautiful.”