Heavens To Bribery, page 8
I’d just about had enough when I glanced up and saw Taven Tidwell had that phone camera stuck up in the air, taking video.
“I’m only giving people what a day in the life of our elected sheriff is like,” he snorted underneath his words. “There ya have it, folks. That’s your sheriff.” He took a step back and turned the phone around. “If you’re tired of the hemming and hawing around Sheriff Kendrick Lowry has given you over the past four years, vote for me, Taven Tidwell. Strong Convictions, Clear Solutions!"
Amidst the chaos of the ball game and the accusations flying, I realized that beneath everything was a woman consumed by grief and desperate for answers. My duty as sheriff went beyond solving crimes—it also encompassed providing support and understanding to those in need.
And no Taven Tidwell could do that.
CHAPTER 8
Frustrated and angry with Taven Tidwell, I felt a surge of irritation erupting deep in my gut. I might’ve mentioned his name in a string of curse words as I drove back to the department.
The scent of greasy, mouthwatering food from Cowboy's Catfish filled the air as I walked into the department located in the back of the building. Conversations and the clinking of cutlery from the bustling restaurant up front added to the background symphony.
While I wanted to address him or even bite back, I knew now was not the time to do it. There would be a time or place, and I’d know it. Until then, I got angry with him using my own words against me.
Actions speak louder than words.
Those words never rang truer to me than in this moment. There were many matters I needed to take action on.
One of those was Finn and where we stood in the engagement. Though no one asked me about it, the gossip was still all over town.
“Strong Convictions, Clear Solutions!" I mimicked Taven Tidwell and turned the Jeep down the alley behind the department as I curled my nose and rolled my eyes.
Ignoring Betty, who was on the phone, I strolled past her desk.
She quickly whispered into the phone, "Oh, I'll have to call you back. She's here." Her false teeth clacked as she closed the conversation, unable to conceal her gossiping tendencies. Although I would have loved to believe that the conversation was about Dilbert's murder, it was more likely centered around Taven Tidwell and his infamous Facebook Live.
"Anything new?" Betty asked, her voice holding a tinge of southern empathy, as if she could sense my frustration.
"I've got a few leads," I replied, walking around my desk and taking a seat.
Betty smiled and got up.
When she opened the door between the department and Cowboy’s Catfish, the aroma of delicious southern cuisine wafted through the air, tempting my growling stomach. I resisted Betty’s offer to fetch me some food from Bartlby and pretended I wasn't hungry, though Bartlby's famous greasy cornbread was calling my name.
Truthfully, my stomach churned with a mix of emotions.
Taven's accusations, my indecision regarding Finn's proposal, the realization that I might have to bid farewell to Poppa—each factor added to my inner turmoil. I felt sick to my stomach, unsure of the precise cause—whether it was the weight of Taven's accusations, the need to choose between Finn and Poppa, or the overwhelming responsibility of solving Dilbert's murder.
In moments like these, I couldn't help but think back to that pivotal summer before heading off to college, when the weight of expectations clashed with the desires of my own heart. I had to confront my own mother's dreams and find my own path. And now, in the midst of this murder investigation, I found myself facing a similar situation.
Determined to tackle the easiest problem on my list, I focused my attention on Dilbert's murder. I knew finding the killer wouldn't be easy, but I had some clues to add to the whiteboard. The murder board, adorned with photos of suspects and evidence, stood as a visual representation of the investigation.
“Did we get any results back from Max concerning the toxicology?” I asked Deputy Scott Lee.
“Not yet,” Scott reported and looked over to the board, where he’d put some photos of Georgina and Dilbert up along with some of the basic stats.
Facts like Georgina’s address, her place of employment, a copy of the divorce decree and EPO all hung from her photo.
The space underneath Dilbert’s picture seemed a little bare.
“Bill Johnson has an alibi.” I told Scott and Betty the story Bill’s wife seemed to back up. “I want you to run by the fairgrounds and ask the volunteers working the beer bar booth that night if they noticed anything. Did they see Bill’s wife in fact pick him up? Talk to Dilbert? Anything you can find out.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Scott nodded respectfully.
“Let’s see what Max has.” I picked up the phone and dialed Max.
The phone rang a few times before Max's voice came through the line, his tone filled with professional yet weary determination.
"Max, it's Kenni. Any news on the autopsy or the toxicology reports?" I asked, anticipation lacing my voice.
"Not yet, Kenni," Max replied. "We're still waiting for the results to come in. But don't worry. I'll keep you posted as soon as we have something."
I let out a sigh of disappointment, but I understood that these things took time. Murder investigations were intricate puzzles, and each piece of evidence had to be examined thoroughly.
I looked up at Scott and shook my head.
As I hung up the phone, Deputy Scott Lee picked up a file and walked straight over to the murder board. His boots resounded on the worn linoleum floor. With a stack of papers in hand, he began updating the board with new information.
I watched Scott as he meticulously pinned up more witness statements, photographs we’d taken of the tracks, and other pertinent details. His focused expression and efficient movements revealed his dedication to his work. I couldn't have asked for a better deputy.
"Any new leads, Scott?" I asked, stepping closer to the murder board.
Scott glanced over his shoulder, scanning the board as if he were double-checking the information. "Not yet, Sheriff," he replied. "But I've been following up on Dilbert's acquaintances, digging into his work and personal life. Hopefully, we'll uncover something soon."
Betty handed me her phone, showing me Dilbert Thistle’s Facebook profile.
“You sit here and eat your cornbread while you scroll through Dilbert’s Facebook posts,” she said. “You might see something that sparks a clue.”
I glanced up at her, my eyes wide.
“Just cause I’m old don’t mean I’m not able to have my own Facebook.” She snickered and moseyed back over to her desk. “Just don’t get butter on my phone.” Betty tsked and looked at my fingers.
I’d already bitten into a piece of the cornbread, and the butter oozed down the side of my finger.
“I won’t,” I told her. I opened the drawer of my desk and grabbed one of the many Cowboy’s Catfish takeout napkins that’d accumulated there.
After one more big bite of cornbread, I wiped off my fingers and began to go down the rabbit hole of social media research to see what Dilbert Thistle had posted.
“Betty,” I called when the phone screen went black. “I’ve timed out.”
“Why don’t you get on the Cottonwood Sheriff’s Facebook on the desktop?” Scott asked. “I set it up a year ago. Remember?”
“Oh yeah,” I said with a sigh. “Plus I don’t have to worry about eating my cornbread and getting butter all over the keyboard,” I teased. Another big bite later, I shook the computer mouse and brought the screen to life.
“Suit yourself.” Betty came back over and got her phone. “But I’m warning you.”
“Warning about what?” I asked. I clicked on the icon for the internet browser, and when the window opened, I typed Facebook.com into the address bar.
“That.” She nodded at the screen. “I gave you my phone to bypass all that junk.”
The first post that came up on the sheriff’s department feed was the live video Taven Tidwell had done at the fairgrounds.
“Oh my gosh,” I gasped, shaking my head and watching a little of it in horror.
“It don’t look bad, Kenni bug,” Poppa stood behind me, looking over my shoulder. “Just make no big deal of it. Say something about how you wished he’d gotten your good side or something. You can’t be worrying about Taven Tidwell. He wants to get your goat.”
He ghosted in front of my desk, right behind the screen. Betty was rattling on about something involving the video, but I wasn’t listening to her. She was more background noise than anything.
“You are the sheriff. He is not. Use that to your advantage,” Poppa encouraged me.
“Did you hear me?” Betty asked, forcing Poppa to disappear. “I said you need to rebut him.”
“I don’t.” I shook my head and scrolled down the page, noticing there were several shares of his video that tagged the department.
“You gasped when you saw it.” Betty’s teeth clacked. She jutted her hip out and stuck her hand on her waist.
“You’re gonna break a hip if you keep thrusting it out there,” I teased. “I gasped because he could’ve at least gotten my good side.”
Although I didn’t move an inch, my eyes slid up over the monitor. Scott’s eyes caught mine, and we both grinned.
“Now, we can’t be getting all upset about a video or two. We have a job to do, and that means we do our job,” he said.
I gave a hard nod and moved the cursor up to the search bar, in which I typed Dilbert’s name to bring up his profile.
Without another word, Betty meandered back over to her desk and sat down. By the way she was shuffling the papers, filing items, and huffing, she wasn’t satisfied with my answer.
But Poppa was right. Taven wanted me to respond. He wanted me to come unhinged, but I wouldn’t going to do that.
Without giving it any more thought, I picked up my coffee and started to drink it as I scrolled through Dilbert’s virtual scrapbook. His page showed pictures of him with friends, snapshots of his softball team, and some shots from their victory celebrations.
There were even a few from what looked to be happier days with Georgina.
My eyes widened as I stumbled upon a photo of Dilbert and Bill Johnson, side by side, both wearing their work uniforms in what seemed to be the drywall plant.
“What do we have here?” I asked. A rush of surprise coursed through me.
How had I missed this connection before? Dilbert and Bill were coworkers, and yet I had been oblivious that they shared a workplace.
I opened a new search engine tab. My fingers danced across the keyboard as I delved into the realm of toxicology. I browsed the results that appeared on the screen, my eyes quickly scanning through the information.
"Common toxins in drywall plants," I muttered under my breath as my search yielded a plethora of results.
Scott and Betty heard me and rushed over.
“What are you thinking?” Scott asked.
“Well, Bill Johnson and Dilbert Thistle worked together. When I talked to Bill at the softball game, he left out that little detail about him and Dilbert. He mentioned a few things about Dilbert drinking and how he’d replaced him. He was with Dilbert last night, and that’s when he said he knew by the way Dilbert was acting he needed to be replaced today for the championship.” I rambled about everything, probably not making much sense to Betty and Scott, even though I was making perfect sense to myself. “And could this poison be something administered in small doses? Did Bill slowly poison Dilbert?”
“Dilbert and Bill could’ve gotten into an argument,” Poppa pointed out.
“We know Dilbert went drinking last night at a bar at the fairgrounds,” I said to Poppa, but Scott apparently thought I was talking to him.
He immediately walked over to the board, flipped off the cap off the marker, and started to write down the bullet points of the theory I shared with Poppa, though it looked like mine exclusively.
“Or possibly they didn’t get along well at work and Bill poisoned him slowly?” Poppa spat out what I’d said just a few seconds ago and pointed at the board for me to write down the idea.
“Bill is strong enough to have carried Dilbert, transported him to the tracks.” The words came to life as Scott wrote them down. “And there are poisons at the drywall plant.”
I skimmed down the list, noting substances like formaldehyde, silica, and various chemical compounds used in the production of drywall.
As I named them out loud, Scott wrote them.
My mind raced as I contemplated the possibilities.
“Could one of these substances have been used as a deadly weapon?” Poppa asked.
I knew I had to dig deeper, gather more evidence, and consult with Max to narrow down the list of potential poisons.
“Are we looking at one of those as the weapon that killed Dilbert?” I asked Poppa’s question so Scott and Betty could hear me.
“It’s a start.” Scott snapped the lid back on the marker and took a step back. He crossed his arms and looked at the board.
“And was there any sort of connection between Bill Johnson and Georgina?” I wondered if they’d had some sort of affair. “Not that I have any reason to believe so, but Georgina sure was laying into Bill at the ball field.”
“I’ll look these up and see what I can come up with,” Scott said about the chemicals I’d found during my internet search for what drywall plants contained.
“We don’t even know if any of those are at the plant, which means I need to go down there on Monday and check it out,” I said without any urgency.
There was no need to say that Dilbert was definitely poisoned until the toxicology report came back from Max. But we could certainly get some leads started. The weekends were slow, and places of business weren’t open, so it would be futile for me to try to find someone down at the plant who would open it for me unless Dilbert’s autopsy came back with some sort of poison that could be connected to the drywall plant.
After I finished going through Dilbert’s photos, I scrolled down his Facebook posts. He really didn’t post much other than images of tools, funny memes, or a few reposts from the drywall plant’s page. When I saw he’d shared the softball team photo from the plant’s page, I clicked on it and decided to see what the plant posted.
They kept their page up with minimal postings about such things as celebrating the national holidays and a few photos thanking various employees for their dedication to the plant. There were also a few photos from Christmas parties and one about a recent retirement.
Nothing screamed that the workers were disgruntled, which could’ve been another motive.
However, I wasn’t ignorant enough to believe that behind all the smiles and good cheer shown by some of the people in the photos, no one was unhappy.
“It’s a puzzle, Kenni bug. The slightest little pieces will make the biggest difference,” Poppa said, reappearing at the door between Cowboy’s Catfish and the department. “Man, oh man, I wish I could have some of that fried catfish.”
“Here is what we know.” I got bored with looking at all the Facebook stuff and stood up. “Our victim is Dilbert Thistle.”
I approached the whiteboard where Scott had pinned up the suspects' photos, each accompanied by their names and potential motives.
Taking a deep breath, I picked up the marker and started to go through each suspect, analyzing their possible involvement in Dilbert's murder.
“Claudia and Rance Forhordt,” I said, adding their names to the suspect list. “Georgina's neighbors. Their motive could be linked to a past disagreement with Dilbert, potentially fueled by long-standing animosity. Perhaps there was a hidden grudge that had simmered beneath the surface for years.”
“I’ll look them up and see if they’ve called in a report or something,” Betty offered. She started to type on her computer to bring up anything on the Forhordts.
“Bill Johnson, the manager of the Dairy Bar softball team,” I said and circled his name. “He is someone I really want to check into first thing Monday morning.”
“His motive could be connected to Dilbert's performance on the team. There might have been a rivalry or jealousy that led to a deadly act,” Scott suggested. “Could they have had any conflicts or tensions during their time together at the drywall plant?”
“Then there’s Georgina herself,” I moved on. “She has to be considered a suspect, despite her emotional outburst at the game. They had a troubled relationship, and she had a restraining order filed against Dilbert. All of this screams motive.”
It was crucial to delve deeper into their past to uncover any hidden secrets or resentments she might’ve had.
“And she said Bill had motive. I didn’t get it from her because she was so distraught at the game, I felt it was best to get her home,” I said.
I could’ve pressed Georgina harder and brought her down to the station, but I didn’t want to have a situation on my hands in which she passed out again, so giving her a few hours to either get herself together or mess up was best.
The latter, messing up, wasn’t unusual in a case like this. It was a known fact that most murder victims were killed by someone in their life. In Georgina’s case, she was acting very irrationally. For someone who loathed Dilbert so much she’d taken out restraining orders against him, acting like she had when he died was a huge red flag.
If I let her simmer for a while, stew in the thought that I wasn’t arresting her, she might just leave her house and lead us right to the reason why she’d killed him.
“Scott.” I jerked around and got his attention. “Do you mind going and sitting in front of Georgina’s house? Following her? See what she’s got going on tonight?”
“Don’t mind at all.” He got up and grabbed his iPad and keys. “I can still do some research on some of the toxins.”
“What about the guy who replaced Dilbert on the team?” Betty asked. “Wouldn’t that give Dilbert a reason to be mad?”
“Jake,” I said.
