If Looks Could Kill. BEVERLY BARTONЧитать онлайн книгу.
I’m so fond of?” Max asked as he lifted his glass from the silver tray Cyrus carried.
“Yes, sir.” Cyrus offered Dodd the other glass.
“Thank you.” Dodd lifted the crystal tumbler and took a sip of the corn mash whiskey.
Farlan studied his brother-in-law, a tall, slender, elegant gentleman. Dodd was now, as he’d been for many years, Farlan’s best friend. It never ceased to amaze him how different he was from his older half-sister. As different as daylight is from dark, Dodd shared none of Veda’s mental and emotional problems. He was highly intelligent, soft spoken and easy to get along with. Farlan had always liked him. Physically, Dodd and Veda shared the same pensive blue eyes—the color inherited from the mother they shared— but Dodd’s once sandy hair was now a multi-colored brown and gray mix. At sixty-four, Dodd lived alone and had since his wife’s death ten years ago.
“Have a seat and we’ll get started.” Farlan motioned to two tufted leather chairs flanking the fireplace. “Brian and Wade will join us when they finish their game.”
After the two men sat, Farlan eased down on the overstuffed couch that faced them. He took a final swig of his liquor and set the glass atop a coaster on the sofa table behind him.
“Well, don’t keep us on pins and needles. What’s this meeting about?” Max lifted his glass to his lips.
“Politics. Our sheriff, our DA and our two circuit court judges are all Democrats, but we’ve still got a damn Republican mayor,” Farlan reminded them. “I want us to get a jump start on the next mayoral election by finding ourselves a suitable candidate before the first of the year. We want to spend time building him up, letting the folks in Cherokee Pointe know there’s a better man for the job than Big Jim’s man, Jerry Lee Todd.”
“You got somebody in mind, Farlan?” Dodd gazed down into his glass as if studying its contents.
“A few names come to mind. But the reason for this meeting is so we can put our heads together and see if the same name keeps coming up. If it does, we’ll know we’ve got the right man.”
“What about George Wyatt?” Max asked.
“He’s better off left on the city council,” Dodd said. “My recommendation is Joe Duffy. He’s a good age—forty—and he’s married with two children. He attends church every Sunday, and since he has a thriving feed and seed business, he wouldn’t be put off by the pittance we’re able to pay our mayor.”
Farlan nodded. “That’s one of the names that keeps popping up in my mind.” Farlan turned to Max. “Do you know of any dirt in his past that might jump up and bite him in the ass during a campaign?”
Max shook his head. “Not that I know of, and I’ve known Joe since he was born. He’s lived here all his life, except for four years away at UT, University of Tennessee, that is. And he married a local girl, Emily Patrick.”
“So, are you saying you’d okay Duffy for our choice as a mayoral candidate?” Farlan asked.
“I suppose so.”
“Good. But before we make a definite decision, I want to hear what Brian and Wade have to say. They’re closer to Duffy’s age and probably know him better than any of us.” Farlan relaxed into the comfort of the familiar old sofa, crossing his legs and motioning for Cyrus to bring him another drink.
By the time Brian and Wade joined the older men in the library, they’d each polished off their third bourbon and even Dodd Keefer’s usually soft voice was a little louder than normal. They had discussed various subjects of interest to three wealthy, successful men, albeit neither Max nor Dodd possessed the sizable fortune Farlan did. As the afternoon wore on, they’d laughed and talked and enjoyed their whiskey. For the life of him Farlan couldn’t remember who’d brought up the subject of the article in this morning’s Knoxville News-Sentinel about the prostitute’s body being dragged out of the river near Loudon. But he figured it must have been Max, who had a tendency to talk too much, a quality shared by many in his profession.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.” Dodd downed the last drops of his third drink.
“Do you mean to say you think it’s all right for someone to murder prostitutes?” Max asked, rather indignantly.
“No, of course not.” Dodd’s olive complexion splotched with pink. “I spoke without thinking.” Dodd stood, set his whiskey glass aside and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the massive front lawn.
“I hear it’s going to frost tonight.” Farlan quickly changed the subject, hoping to ease Dodd’s discomfort. His brother- in-law was a sensitive, emotional man. A good man.
An apologetic look crossed Max’s face. He glanced from Dodd, who stood with his back to them, to Farlan, then nodded agreeably. “Yes, sir, cold weather is just around the corner.”
Farlan studied Dodd’s drooping shoulders, his bowed head. If they were alone, he’d bring up that old taboo subject that haunted them both; and they would discuss it again, as they occasionally did when the burden of guilt and regret overcame them. But they weren’t alone and that shameful part of their pasts wasn’t something they ever discussed with anyone else, not even Max, whom they both trusted implicitly. That particular time in their lives was something Farlan would rather forget. And usually he was able to keep it buried deep inside, but occasionally he wondered if he should have done things differently. If he had, would his life now be better or worse?
Apparently sensing he’d inadvertently upset Dodd, Max began talking about this and that, doing his best to lighten the mood. Maxwell presented a jovial face to the world, even to family and friends. Farlan knew Max as few others did, knew the demons that plagued him.
“What are you jabbering about, Max?” Brian asked teasingly as he and Wade walked in, both ruddy-cheeked from having played a round of golf in the crisp October weather.
“Did I hear someone say something about another prostitute being found in the Tennessee River?” Wade inquired.
Farlan looked at the young man and thought not for the first time that the boy was too damned good-looking. Too pretty to be a man. “The prostitute’s murder was just something Max mentioned in passing. We’ve been shooting the bull for a couple of hours waiting on you boys to show up.”
Wade meandered over toward the windows where Dodd still stood with his back to the room. “How are you, Judge?”
“Well enough,” Dodd replied in a quiet, stilted voice.
“What did you mean when you said another prostitute?” Max asked. “Has there been more than one murdered?”
Wade turned around and faced the others. “Several in the past couple of years. All in the eastern part of the state, all the bodies dumped into the river. One was as recent as six months ago. That body was recovered downstream from Watts Barr. I believe I took note of a similar case for the first time only a couple of years ago, and if I recall correctly, there have been four cases with practically the same MO.”
“And that MO would be?” Brian asked as he turned to accept a glass of bourbon from Cyrus, who’d just offered him a drink.
Dodd whirled around, his eyes overly bright, his facial features drawn. “If y’all will excuse me, I’m not feeling well.”
“Do you need me to drive you home?” Farlan asked.
“No need for that,” Dodd replied. “I’ll just go to the men’s room and throw a little cold water in my face, then I’ll see if Cyrus can rustle me up a bite to eat. I skipped lunch. I’m sure that’s the problem.”
Poor Dodd. Brilliant man, but far too sensitive. People said that combination made him an excellent judge.
Once Dodd left the room, Farlan motioned for Wade and Brian to sit. “As much as y’all find the gruesome murders of several young women fascinating, let’s set aside the gossip and get down to