Issuu

Praise for the Cleo Cooper Mysteries Saving Cecil: “Mims’ heroine and supporting cast flesh out a rich crew of characters.”—Kirkus Reviews Trusting Viktor: “A breezily entertaining whodunit.”—Publishers Weekly “[A] fun read.”—Mystery Scene Hiding Gladys: “Readers will want to see more of this spunky geologist with a streak of independence and a passion for her profession.” —Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine “[A] solid debut.”—Publishers Weekly

saving cecil

also by lee mims Hiding Gladys (2013) Trusting Viktor (2014)

Lee Mims

saving Cecil A Cleo Cooper Mystery

Midnight Ink

woodbury, minnesota

Saving Cecil: A Cleo Cooper Mystery ÂŠ 2015 by Lee Mims. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2015 Cover design by Ellen Lawson Cover illustration by Ken Joudrey Map by Bob Murray Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authorâ€™s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data (pending) 978-0-7387-3427-9 Midnight Ink Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. 2143 Wooddale Drive Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to the memory of Ron Lowery. He was a computer tamer extraordinaire and a fine friend. You are gone too soon.

PANGEA

I C

Basins and Sub-Basins in North Carolina Dan River: Danville Deep River: Durham, Sanford, Wadesboro Approximate location of North Carolina Triassic Basins: east coast of North America & west coast of Africa

A B

100 Miles

Sanford sub-basin

Fayetteville Ellerbe sub-basin Wadesboro sub-basin

501

421

DEEP RIVER

Gulf

Wilmington

Cumnock 1

Durham sub-basin

RALEIGH

Sanford

P E E

Wadesboro

I N

E VI

Charlotte

DEE

Greensboro Durham Chapel Hill I

Winston-Salem

DAN

R VE

Lauderbach #1

421

Lauderbach Farm

Sanford 1

2 Miles

“Why has not anyone seen that fossils alone gave birth to a theory about the formation of the earth, that without them, no one would have ever dreamed that there were successive epochs in the formation of the globe.” —Georges Cuvier, Discours Aur Les Rvolutions Du Globe, Tudes Sur L’Ibis Et Mmoire Sur La Vnus Hottentote “Amidst the vicissitudes of the earth’s surface, species cannot be immortal, but must perish, one after another, like the individuals which compose them. There is no possibility of escaping from this conclusion.” — Charles Lyell, Principles of Geology “It was during my enchanted days of travel that the idea came to me, which, through the years, has come into my thoughts again and again and always happily—the idea that geology is the music of the earth.” —Hans Cloos, Conversation with the Earth

on e

You know how it feels when you think someone or something is watching you? Well, I can tell you the creep factor goes way up when the latter is suspected. It was a Wednesday, October 2nd to be exact, and a gorgeous fall day. I was in my favorite place on the planet—that being anywhere in the woods of North Carolina. The leaves were starting to turn. The air was nippy and tinged with the faint hint of wood smoke. Normally, I’d have reveled in this pleasant assault on my senses, but instead I was distracted by another sense … that sixth sense that alerts us to unseen dangers. Some call it ESP. I call it the jitters. Whatever it was, the snap of a twig here, the crackle of a dry leaf there, had me on edge. Occasionally I’d stop and listen, but nothing ever revealed itself. I was trying to quell my unease, chalk it up to too much caffeine, when I detected the scent of something other than wood smoke, something deeply rooted in my memory bank. I stopped again and sniffed the air.

The scent proved to be as frustratingly elusive as the phantom sounds. Still, I stared intently into the deep woods for a few moments. Then, deciding I needed to put a check on my imagination, I reached into the back pocket of my jeans for a freshly printed satellite photo—thank you, Google Earth—of the immense familyowned dairy farm I was currently trekking. My hope was that the old game trail I’d stumbled upon would be a shortcut to the forty-acre pasture where I’d parked my Jeep earlier this morning. I’d already accomplished my mission of flagging a second drill site. Shouldn’t be much farther now. I refolded my map, jammed it back in my pocket, and moved on. After a while, I came to a clearing where an ancient oak spread its low-hanging branches, creating even deeper shade than already existed in the old-growth woods. Mossy undergrowth muffled my steps. My wariness momentarily waned as autumn sunlight, filtering through the dense hardwood and pine canopy above, danced in brilliant patches at my feet. Just then, another rustle, this time to my left, brought me up short again. And the smell had returned. What was it? As I tilted my head, trying to pick up even the slightest sound, the abrupt jangle of my iPhone—programmed with the old phone ring—sent me straight up off the ground. Fumbling it like a hot potato, I managed to answer without dropping it. “Babe,” my ex-husband, Franklin Donovan Cooper IV, chirped on the other end. “Hi Bud,” I answered, using his nickname from birth, the one that everyone who knew him used if they expected a response. “What’s up?” I eyed my surroundings warily as I talked. “I just got all warm and fuzzy thinking about last night and wondered when you’re coming home. I thought I’d make you some 2

of my famous clam chowder. We’ve got several bags of chopped clams in the freezer.” Now, Bud never makes me his clam chowder, being the rather arduous process it is, unless he wants something. Of course, I knew what he wanted and decided to save him the trouble. “By ‘home,’ I take it you’re referring to my house,” I said, peering around the mighty oak before I leaned against it. “Which, in turn, means you’re still there and apparently planning to spend another night.” Bud sighed. “If you’re trying to imitate a shrew, you’re doing an admirable job. Play nice. I’m simply suggesting that we actually go over some of the wedding arrangements that are being made for you because you’re too … busy to take part … ” “Hey!” I butted in. “I helped with the hard part, picking the actual date.” “Yes,” Bud said patiently. “And we’ve both pencil-whipped our calendars until we could set aside a whole month for that honeymoon we never had.” I closed my eyes as Technicolor images of Bora Bora floated before them. Bud continued, “A cozy bowl of chowder, some of your jalapeño cornbread, a little coleslaw, and we’ll both feel … fortified … to take on the task. It won’t be hard, I promise. And, if you’d take the time to meet the wedding planner I hired, I’m sure you’d like her. She’s handled all types of affairs from big corporate events with a thousand people or more to small intimate weddings with only a few hundred people.” Bora Bora evaporated. My eyes blinked open. “What?” I squawked. “Bud! How many people have you invited?”

“Well, I’ve got a large corporate family, you know. Then there’s all our friends and family, plus all the people you do business with. The kids and I have kept it down to around five hundred … ” “Are you insane?” I screeched. I could hear him sputtering something as I tapped the phone off, dropped it into my windbreaker pocket, and turned to stare square into the face of a very large wild boar. Oink! Oink! I froze. The blood-curdling shriek that had formed in my chest hung up at my lips and my feet were stuck to the ground. When the massive beast backed up a few steps, squinted his beady little eyes at me and clattered his tusks, my mobility instantly returned. Whipping around the massive oak, I took the only escape route available at the time, a low-hanging branch. I leaped, wrapped my arms around it, and swung up just as the boar skidded to a stop under me. From my inverted position, I not only realized the source of the illusory musky odor, but two other things as well: an upside-down boar doesn’t look any friendlier, and, this hog was way larger than any I’d ever seen, and I’d been to several pig pickins where wild boar was featured. Not only was this guy a plus-size shopper, he was also a fast learner. He quickly walked his front feet up the trunk and tried to hook me with his deadly tusks, barely missing my butt. My butt—being one of my better features—is very dear to me, so, hand over hand, legs crossed at the ankles, I scooted up the limb as fast as I could. Many years spent in the field has kept me in great shape. I was quickly gaining altitude. “Ha!” I shouted triumphantly down to the vile creature. Then the limb began to droop. 4

Porkulus, realizing this, abandoned his position at the trunk and returned to stand under me, drooling with anticipation. Only now, his jaw smacking was creating a frothy foam. Wonderful! Had I known when I left home that I’d be served up like an hors d’oeuvres on a toothpick to an angry member of the porcine tribe, I’d have stayed home. Accompanied by tiny cracking noises, the branch swayed down another few inches and, great shape or not, my biceps were beginning to fatigue. I needed another plan. My cookies! With one elbow hooked over the limb, I reached into my other back pocket and found the packet of Nekots I’d placed there before leaving my Jeep. “Hey, fatso! Want a cookie?” I tossed the pack to the ground at Porky’s feet. He never even looked down, just stomped right on my midmorning snack. To add insult, he ground it into the dirt, pawing like an Spanish bull. Rude noises erupted from somewhere—I didn’t want to think where—as he leaped and lunged at me. I hugged the limb tighter. “Have you thought of Weight Watchers,” I called down to him—humor often lessens fear—while struggling to roll up on top of the limb instead of hanging under it. Hogzilla’s response: a frightened little squeal. I looked down just in time to see him hauling freight up the path, tail pointed straight in the air. Who knew hogs were so sensitive? The small modicum of relief I felt upon witnessing his retreat gave me strength, and I managed to pull myself over the limb and straddle it. I scooted back against the trunk. When my heart rate returned to normal and I was sure Elvis had indeed left the building, I carefully stood up on the branch. Hugging its trunk cautiously, I peered to either side of

it, wondering if the clever boar was just waiting down the path for me, hiding in the thick underbrush. Why was he so big? He’d probably tip the scales at 450 pounds. Typically, wild boars average around 200 pounds. And, not discounting my fat joke, why had he run off like that? I peered through the limbs and leaves for a hunter who might have frightened him, but saw no one. Thinking more height would help, I hauled myself astride another larger branch higher above me. This, however, proved to be a waste of time and energy. The foliage was even denser up here. Then I thought I heard something. I stopped scrambling about in the branches and listened. Only birdsong and the whine of a far-away chain saw met my ears. I returned to the limb below and thought of my next move. Did I climb down and risk another encounter with the boar? I thought not. With balled-up fists, I gave my head little faux punches and exclaimed aloud, “Damn, damn, double damn!” Why hadn’t I strapped on my Beretta this morning? I knew better than to enter woods, no matter how small, without protection, but hell, I was practically in the suburbs. I was little more than 15 miles from downtown Sanford, the Lee County seat. To be precise, I was in a small fifty-acre patch of woods, one of many scattered about as windbreaks, separating the rolling pastures of the Lauderbach Dairy Farm. I’m a geologist, educated at UNC in Chapel Hill, trained in the field for many years, working for several private companies in various geologic capacities. Presently, I own my own geologic consulting business. Actually I am the business, but lately I’ve been putting some serious thought into hiring someone to do the leg work … especially on days like today. So far, though, I haven’t found the time or, honestly, the inclination to start a search. 6

Anyway, the Lauderbachs had contracted an energy company, Greenlite Energy out of Pennsylvania, to find gas on their farm. As is customary for operators, Greenlite hired an independent wellsite geologist, me, to work with Schmid & Medlin, the contractor they hired to do the actual drilling of the well. Lauderbach Dairy Farm comprises over 2,200 acres of gently rolling pastures and primitive woodlands situated on a sweeping outside bend of the Deep River. Two small towns, Gulf and Cumnock, are only a few miles away. Once beyond the boundaries of the farm, it was impossible to go very far in any direction before encountering an isolated house, a small farm or, for that matter, another drilling operation. I blew out a frustrated breath. That was no excuse, I should have worn a sidearm. What an easy shot that would have been. Right between the eyes, and it would have been lights out for Porky Pig. Besides being a solid guarantee that he wouldn’t charge me again, he’d have made a tasty donation to one of the many charities in the state that process game for the needy. Still, there was one bright spot. Good old fate had intervened and I hadn’t brought Tulip with me. She’s a deerhound that found me in the far reaches of a pine plantation one day while I was prospecting for granite and she was looking for her owner. She’d adopted me on the spot and has been my trusty field buddy ever since. Feral hogs can make short work of hunting dogs. Thankfully, she was at the vet’s, getting her annual checkup. Just thinking of her made my heart rate slow and my frazzled nerves even out. Tense shoulder muscles relaxed. I closed my eyes, listened to the woodland sounds, and tried to convince myself of the prudence of waiting a little longer. But I didn’t like being treed. It gave me too much time to pontificate on marrying Bud again, 7

which brought back memories of how we happened to get married in the first place. Memories made me … well, anxious. To my mind, I was more than justified in feeling this way. After all, I’d been here before, both physically and metaphorically. Physically, I’d been in this very location. In a geological sense, that is. It was 26 years ago and I was right here in the Sanford subbasin doing the same thing I am now, working for an exploration company engaged in drilling for natural gas. Only back then, the wells weren’t production wells like they are today. Back then, we were drilling the first-ever exploration wells in the area. Without a doubt I can say that was the lowest point of my life. Metaphorically, I was under enormous pressure to marry Bud Cooper just like I am now. Again, the lowest point of my life. The only difference: back then Bud wasn’t acting like a wedding planner on steroids. I got a shudder just thinking of crowded ballrooms in a stuffy hotel, champagne flowing, drunken friends, giggling children, and the cloying smell of wilting flowers. Okay, enough of that! Throwing caution to the wind, I swung to the ground and resumed my hike to the drill rig. Wild boar or no wild boar, I was outta here! Once on the ground, I quickened my pace to a brisk clip. I still needed to introduce myself to the Lauderbachs—I’d be their liaison with Schmid & Medlin. I’d already met the drill crew when I arrived this morning and they seemed like a nice bunch of guys. But then I’ve never met a drill crew that wasn’t. They’d been here for over a month already, doing site preparation and taking care of the myriad of things that must be done before I’m needed. Besides site prep, which included digging and lining the pits that would hold drilling mud, fracking fluid and flow-back water, they’d also dug the cellar for the well and installed the conductor 8

pipe. One of their new generation of flex-rigs had been brought in and was now completely set up. The surface hole had been dug and the casing cemented. This was the stage where precautions were taken to prevent contamination of the ground water, generally located in the Sanford area about 200 feet down. The drill team had drilled past the water table, inserted surface casing, pumped cement down the well until it came out the end of the casing and was forced back up between the casing and the well to the surface, thus sealing off the water table. Then the casing head, and the BOP, blowout preventer, had been installed and tested and now vertical drilling was underway. They were cutting through surficial deposits of recent age, which wouldn’t require any sampling, so I wasn’t really needed on site. Once we reached the Sanford Formation, the formation overlying our target, I’d get back on site and earn my keep. I had scheduled at least three more weeks to complete this well. My plan for the rest of the day, once I spoke to the Lauderbachs, was to leave here so I could prepare to wrap up some loose ends on old projects. In particular, one in DC. The trees began to thin out and I could almost make out the pasture I was looking for through the trees. The clanking sounds of metal on metal and occasional laughter let me know the drill crew couldn’t be far away. I picked up my pace, feeling somewhat like Dorothy upon seeing the Emerald City. The trail broadened and here and there saplings stretched their branches over it. Unfortunately, these branches also made perfect anchoring points for orb spiders to spin their webs, leaving them at just the right height to catch me in the face. I ducked under one of their sticky homes, sending its occupant scurrying for cover, and rose to my second jaw-dropping sight of the morning. 9

There, lying facedown on the trail in front of me, was the body of a man. A bright neon-green arrow stuck straight up from his back. I heard the startled intake of my own breath. Dropping to my knees beside him, I quickly palpated his neck for a pulse. He was still warm, but I felt no bumping of life through his jugular. I wanted to place my ear on his back but the arrow was in the way. It had gone in a few inches to the right of his spine. Thinking maybe his pulse was just faint, I shook him gently, hoping he’d give me some sign that he was still alive. He didn’t. Panicked, I jumped up and sprinted a few feet in the direction of the drill crew. Then sanity kicked in and I stopped, pulled out my iPhone, and called 911. I told them what I’d found and gave them directions to the drill site. Next, I hit the number for the drill foreman. I’d stored it this morning as soon as I’d met him. “Yo!” said Jackie Floyd, a Pennsylvanian who’d been drilling holes for Schmid & Medlin since their inception in 1980. I quickly explained the situation and my location. “I know right about where you are,” Jackie said. “We’re on the way!” “Be sure to leave someone at the site and someone at the edge of the woods to direct the EMTs,” I said. “10-4!” I turned back to the camo-clad body. It looked like that of a young man but now days hairstyles aren’t definitive. Moreover, his face was turned away from me. I stepped to his far side and knelt in the pine straw and leaf litter. Gingerly, I brushed aside auburn curls, revealing the face of a handsome young man. There was also an angry red wheal on the side of his neck, but that was the least of his worries. Still not convinced he was dead, I inspected him further, but the more I did, the more hopeless I felt. 10

Blood, which had run from his nose and mouth, was beginning to congeal and his eyes held a fixed, dull gaze. The fact that the blood was no longer oozing let me know his heart had probably stopped pumping. Still, I couldn’t stop myself, I pulled his arm from against his body and placed my ear against his rib cage, hoping to hear a beating heart, however faint. I heard something! A bumping, fluttering sound. I reached across his back, careful not to touch the arrow, and pulled him closer, pressing my ear tighter to his side. The bumping got louder. “Holy crap!” exclaimed one of the drill crew, sliding to a stop beside me. Disappointment flooded over me when I realized the sound I’d been hearing was only the drill crew’s footfalls as they ran to my aid. “What the hell?” said Jackie, stepping around his crewman. He looked at me, then knelt at the body and went through pretty much the same attempts to detect life as I had. Finally, he sat back on his heels. “Don’t think we’re gonna need medical help,” he said softly. “I’m afraid you’re right,” I said, looking closer at the man’s face. “Looks young. Early twenties maybe, and apparently a hunter.” Jackie nodded, then stood. He studied our immediate surroundings and said, “’Cept for one thing … where’s his gun?” “Good point,” I said, joining him. “For that matter, where’s his ammo pack?” “Could’ve just had them in an easy-access pocket. That’s what I do.” I considered checking his pockets, then said, “I would look, but I don’t think we should disturb the body any further.” “I agree,” he said. Jackie was in his mid-fifties and was a few inches shorter than me. He lifted his white, plastic hard hat, scrubbed 11

his mostly bald head with a calloused paw, then replaced it with a thunk. At this gesture of finality, we all moved a discrete distance from the sad sight. Within minutes we heard the far-away pulsing of the siren on an emergency vehicle. Like I said, the outskirts of the small town of Sanford was only a few miles away and no doubt most of its residents knew where the Lauderbach Dairy was located. It was one of the oldest businesses in the area. They were probably one of the larger employers as well. Unfortunately, Jackie and I were correct in our diagnosis. The poor soul was as dead as the proverbial doornail. We stayed out of the way until the EMTs confirmed the death in their call to the Lee County Sheriff ’s Department. Then we followed their van as it pulled up a small hill that rose gently from the edge of the woods to the leveled area where our rig sat. The van continued across the pasture to the far gate where they met cars carrying sheriff ’s deputies and the coroner’s van. The lead deputy car and the EMTs pulled aside each other, exchanging information, I imagined. Then the caravan resumed its short journey to where one of Jackie’s crew waited at the edge of the woods. He directed them to the body, then joined us at back at the rig where we all tried to get back on track. Tried being the operative word. The crew might have been working on the casing head, but their chatter was of nothing but the body, what he might have been hunting, where his gun was, how another hunter could have made such a dumb mistake, and on and on. I hoped their distracted state didn’t end in a smashed finger or worse. Jackie and I had gone straight to the doghouse—a small travel trailer provided by the operator for the wellsite geologist. 12

Everything needed to conduct my job, from a table for studying maps to a small testing lab for samples, was available there. It even had a bathroom, a mini-fridge, and a cot for catnaps or for when wells came in during the dead of night as they often do. “It’s stuffy in here,” I said as I picked up my topographic map of the farm and a copy of the drill plan and moved to a small wooden stoop outside and into the fresh air. Jackie followed, expressing his concerns for keeping to Schmid & Medlin’s tight schedule. Just as we started going over our plans, another van and a sedan came over the crest of a far hill and through the gate. “Good thing Mr. Lauderbach moved his cows,” I said as we watched them bump down the slope toward the deputy who was motioning at the edge of the woods. “Huh?” Jackie grunted as another deputy car pulled up to the gate. “Yeah,” I concurred. “Interesting. Detectives and a van full of crime scene techs for a hunting accident?” Jackie squinted his eyes, tracking their progress. “Guess somebody had the same questions we did.” “Guess so,” I said, directing my attention once again to the information before me in an effort to bring the day back on course. From the moment I’d seen the dead man, a sick feeling, like a deep depression, threatened to move in and take over. I shook my head, rubbed my temples, and tried to forge on. “You feeling okay?” Jackie asked. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Just a little headache is all,” I said, flattening the rolled map again. “Let’s make sure I flagged Lauderbach #2 where the company man wants it.” I was referring to Mr. Ben Overmire, Greenlite’s top executive on this job. From time to time, 13

he’d drop by to make sure the well was being drilled according to his design. Jackie was noting my flag on the map when the sound of another car engine robbed us of normalcy yet again. This time, it was a shiny new Ford Police Interceptor, and instead of driving to what was now becoming an ant hill of activity, it pulled up in front of us. That’s when the course of the day suddenly left my control and headed off on its own with me as a passenger on a ride I didn’t want to take. A ride back in time.

T WO

The Lee County Sheriff unfolded himself from the Interceptor, took a few steps in our direction, then stopped. His head seemed to snap back as he lifted his shades. His jaw dropped for a second, but he was quick to regain his composure. Casually, he sauntered to the bottom of the stoop. With one hand on the railing and one booted foot resting on the bottom riser, he said, “Well, well, as I live and breathe, if it ain’t Pete Margot’s little girl, Cleo.” I, too, ditched my gape and now managed a polite response. “I’m surprised you remember after all these years.” I wanted to say I was also surprised he was still sheriff. He had seemed old back in the dark days when I first knew him. But back then, anyone over the age of thirty seemed old. Sheriff Clyde Stuckey and I stared at each other. I sensed he was trying to judge whether I was still holding a grudge. I was. “How long has it been now?” he asked. “A little over 25 years.” 15

“How is Pete?” “Fine, I guess. I don’t see him much.” Thanks to you. “Last I heard he was working in Africa or one of them dark, dangerous countries doing some kind of deep-sea work.” The fact that you keep up with him is pretty sick. “Dad’s an underwater welder,” I replied stiffly. “Because he’s one of only a handful with his level of experience, he travels all over the world.” I was ready to end this conversation or at the very least change it. I didn’t have to though. The good sheriff did it for me. “Wow. What are the odds?” he said, giving the railing a smack. “You’re back working in my county and bam! Another body turns up! And you find him too. Just like last time … ” I let a pregnant pause take full effect before asking, “Was there a point in there?” “Not really. I’m just saying is all.” Sheriff Stuckey straightened up, snapped the lapels on his sports jacket and hitched well-worn jeans up on his lanky frame. “Speaking of experience, I imagine you remember the routine, missy, but just to refresh … I’ll need to speak with you and probably these men, too, before I leave. Right now, I’m needed at the scene.” My long-dormant hatred for this man was awakening at an alarming rate. Moreover, I needed somehow to show him that he wasn’t dealing with the same young girl he’d known before. I rustled up my sternest professional manner, molded my facial expression to match, and said, “It would be better for us if we could get this over right now. We’ve had enough interruptions for one day and Mr. Floyd and I have a tight schedule to keep.” Stuckey pulled a toothpick from his jacket pocket, placed it between his teeth and flicked it rapidly up and down. Then, with a

sarcastic snort, he angled himself back into the car and headed down the hill. Jackie blew out a long, low whistle. “He sure don’t like you none and what was that about you finding a body before this one?” “It’d be pretty fair to say Sheriff Stuckey doesn’t like anyone, and about the other … don’t give it a second thought.” “No problem,” Jackie said with a smart nod of his head. “And about him interrupting us again later, don’t you worry none, I can keep them knuckleheads of mine on track.” I could tell Jackie and I were going to get along real good.

True to his word, Sheriff Stuckey did return. And true to my memory of him, his interview dragged out way longer than necessary given the fact that none of us knew much of anything. Well, I did mention the fact that I’d seen a wild boar on down the game trail a ways. I even took him to the spot, explaining I’d stopped there to answer my iPhone. Seemed pointless to add all that extraneous information about being treed. No sense sounding all girly. I just pointed to the tracks under the tree, identifying them as belonging to a feral hog and noted that it’s open season on them all year long in North Carolina. To my mind, these facts added weight to the theory that the young man was the victim of a hunting accident. I mean, how else do you end up in camos, dead on a game trail with an arrow in your back? Sheriff Stuckey had brought a detective with him and stood by, as though supervising, while he asked us questions and took notes. The first thing that stood out about Detective Sergeant Chris 17

Bryant—he was a pretty boy with startlingly bright blue eyes. He looked to be in his early thirties, his dark brown hair neatly trimmed on the sides, longer on top with a charming cowlick on the right side. He, too, wore jeans and a sports jacket. He was at least four inches taller than my five-foot-nine frame and had a buffed-up physique and a friendly smile. Every time he would try to wrap things up, Stuckey would ask some irrelevant question to engage the crew in hunting or fishing stories. It was obvious the detective wanted to tell him to take a hike but was too polite. He might not have known what was going on but I did. Stuckey was just showing me he was in control, he could take as much of my time as he wanted. Also, I got the feeling that he was trying to get at something—I couldn’t put my finger on it—that the detective was ignorant of. I wanted to ask if Stuckey knew the victim; almost seemed like he did. I refrained. Given my past with Stuckey, seemed best to stay out of things. Finally, just in case it wasn’t obvious to everyone who was in charge, he turned to his detective and said, “Finish up here, Bryant, and make sure you see me in my office before you leave today.” Detective Bryant’s face flushed red, but he answered with a crisp, “Yes, sir, will do.” I kinda felt sorry for the guy.

Just before leaving the site for the day, I informed Jackie that for the next two days, I’d be in Washington, DC, finishing a project I’d been working on for Martin Marietta Aggregates. My last task

before heading to my house in Raleigh forty-five minutes away, was a quick stop by the Lauderbach home. As I pulled up the drive the stately old white farmhouse was inviting, glowing rosy gold in the mellow light of late afternoon. I trotted up the brick steps and wondered how old they were and if they’d been mined from one of the clay pits prevalent in the area. Not finding a doorbell, I used the knocker. The door opened wide, revealing a portly lady with a round, brown face. “Yes?” she inquired. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Cleo Cooper and I was hoping to meet with the Lauderbachs. Are they home?” “No, ma’am,” she said, her manner nervous and distracted. “Not at the moment. They’ve, uh … they … .” “Is there a problem?” I asked. “Well, there was an accident here on the farm early this afternoon. A hunting accident. The police have been here and talked to them and to me. It was terribly distressing,” she said, clutching her ample bosom. “Since then, they’ve found out it was a close friend. Why, that child has played here with their children since they was little bitty kids. He worked here in the summers in the dairy too. They’ve gone into town to meet with the family.” “I’m so sorry,” I said sadly, explaining that I knew about the accident—without mentioning I’d found him—and why I was there. “Well, I’m Ruby,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’ll tell them you came by. Would you like me to let them know when you’ll be back?” “Yes,” I said. “Tell them I’ll drop back by in a few days.”

Later that evening in my kitchen, Tulip was finishing her dinner. Her tags made comforting little clinking sounds on her stainless steel bowl. Bud was making his own clinking noises, chopping coleslaw. He was also trying to draw me into a conversation about our upcoming nuptials. We’d planned our wedding for Saturday, November 9th. Bora Bora is spectacular that time of year. The rains haven’t set in yet, it’s plenty warm, and there are less tourists. “So what did you think of the pictures of wedding cakes Henri brought over?” Bud asked as I stirred an egg into my cornbread batter. To say that Henri, my daughter, and Will, my son, ages 26 and 28 respectively, were elated about Bud and I remarrying would have been an understatement. When Bud had told the kids he wanted it to be a big, splashy affair, they’d practically floated off the ground. When he’d turned them loose with the wedding planner to do anything they wanted, they’d shot straight to the stratosphere! They were of the age when most any occasion was an excuse for a party. I poured the batter into my mom’s old cast iron frying pan and slid it into the oven. I flopped in a chair to go through the mail that was waiting for me on the kitchen table. Tulip curled at my feet and licked leftover chow from her muzzle as I shuffled through envelopes and sipped wine. Then I remembered Bud had asked me a question. “Huh?” I said. “The wedding cakes,” he reminded me. “I asked you about the wedding cakes.” “Oh, yeah,” I said. “They were really … lovely.” “Henri’s putting a lot into this,” Bud said. “She’s visited bakers, been to tastings, and looked through stacks of wedding magazines.

That’s where she got those pictures. She tore out ones she said were ‘you.’ So which one are you leaning towards?” Finding the envelope I’d been looking for, the one from the Smithsonian Institute, I slit it open, adding, “Uh, you know, the one I … uh, already said I liked.” I removed the enclosed documents. “You mean, the one with the naked cupids spiraling up the layers and the bright red heart on top?” “Yeah, that’s the one,” I said, pocketing the enclosed staff pass and tossing the envelope and junk mail in the trash. Bud smacked the bowl of coleslaw down in front of me. “Naked cupids, indeed! You haven’t heard a word I’ve said!” “Huh?” I startled, sloshing wine on my hand. “I have too!” “Describe the cake. The one you say you like.” “Uh … ” I looked up at him and sucked wine from my fingers—a time-tested diversionary tactic. “Nice try. Maybe later,” Bud said, refilling my wine glass before guiding me to an oversized lounge chair in the den where he gathered me onto his lap. “Tell me what’s wrong and don’t give me your usual ‘everything’s fine’ crap. Clearly it isn’t. Is it the wedding or your new consulting job?” “Both, kind of … .” “Explain.” “Well, about the wedding, we’ve been over this and over it for a year now. I don’t want this circus you and the kids are planning, and now, since you put them in charge and they’re so excited, I can’t stop it. They’d be crushed. I feel out of control here, Bud!” Tulip, sensing my anxiety, trotted to us and sat in front of me. I rubbed her silky ears to let her know all was fine and she left to take care of her business, exiting the house through her doggie door.

“That’s the idea,” Bud said. “You and I have demanding jobs and don’t need to be in control. The kids are doing a fine job and they have the wedding planner, too, don’t forget. Besides, they’re having a grand time and I can afford it. What’s the problem?” I should explain that Bud is a very wealthy entrepreneur from a long line of wealthy entrepreneurs starting back before the Revolutionary War, growing cotton and rice in the Deep South. He’s the first of his family, however, to bring them into the 21st century, diversifying the company and moving into other ventures, including everything from oil and gas investments to rocket parts. “It … it’s just that … ” “Look. The kids and I have tried for a long, long time to put us back together. I think they deserve this celebration of family. I know I do. It’s beginning to worry me that you are so against it.” Great. Make me feel like a world-class heel. “I do feel like celebrating. Just not with two-thirds of the world’s population. I wanted it to be something of a more, you know, intimate nature.” “That’s what honeymoons are for. And just a heads up: Henri’s convinced you haven’t actually ordered a dress like you’ve told her you have. She’s on the warpath so maybe you should do something to remedy the situation.” “Like what?” “Simple. Choose a dress. Now, before we move on to what’s bothering you about your new consulting job, have you talked to your dad yet about coming to the wedding?” Feeling I’d lost this wedding battle, but might still have some effect on the overall war—the size and scope of things—I retreated to fight again another day. I said, “No, that’s another thing. As a general rule, I can never get him on the first try, but I’ve called him

repeatedly and he hasn’t gotten back to me. I know he’s getting my messages.” “You worry too much. He’s probably on a job without much reception. Now tell me about the new job.” “Well, there is the matter of finding a body not far from our drill site today.” Bud was momentarily struck speechless. Then he found just the right words to sum up my feelings perfectly. “I guess that was déjà vu all over again, huh?” “Yes, and except for the fact that this was obviously a hunting accident, it gets even more ‘déjà vu,’ as you put it, than that.” Bud waited quietly but I could feel him tense. “Guess who the Lee County sheriff is now?” He shrugged. “I have no idea.” “The same one that arrested Dad all those years ago and threw him in jail for something he didn’t do. The same one that, if it hadn’t been for you, would have succeeded in having him convicted for murder one! The same one that … ” Bud hugged me tight against his chest. “Cleo, stop. You’re working yourself into a state now. The past is the past. And, yes, the old bastard is … well, a bastard, but he’s definitely not worth getting upset about, especially after all these years. Speaking of which, isn’t he a little long in the tooth for the job of sheriff?” I took a deep breath. “You’re right, and to answer your question, I have no idea how old he is. He looked fairly fit. I’m trying to chalk this unfortunate event up to … I don’t know, bad karma or something because the thing is, I can’t let him or the past distract me right now. I might not have money riding on this job, but it means so much to me to be a part of this new energy revolution in North Carolina. To be part of seeing that it’s done right.” 23

“As you know, Bud, the shale in the Cumnock Formation isn’t like the Marcellus that lies under most of Pennsylvania. The Marcellus shale lies tens of thousands of feet below the water table. The Cumnock is just a few thousand feet below it and like one of my old professors used to say, ‘You can make all the hydrologic models in the lab you want to, but groundwater has a mind of its own. It goes where it wants to go.’” “Plus,” I added, wiggling up from his lap. “Lots of people are becoming very rich. Some even millionaires. Jobs are being created and even though this economic boom only effects the energy sector of North Carolina’s economy, like you always say, it spreads. I like being part of something good … ” “That’s all well and good,” Bud interrupted. “Just remember, even though you aren’t having to do the wedding planning, there are decisions to be made.” “Yes, yes, I’ll remember.” Bud rolled his eyes but I continued, “And, don’t you forget, I’m still working on that Smithsonian project. I’m leaving bright and early tomorrow morning to drive up there and you said Tulip could hang out with you.” “I haven’t forgotten,” Bud said, rising to the sound of the timer to pull my cornbread from the oven. “While we eat you can tell me how you happened to find the hunting accident victim, then I’ll see to it you get to bed early. I’ll even tuck you in myself.”

Saving Cecil, by Lee Mims