“How many partners are there in the company? I thought it was owned by a family in New England.”
“Massachusetts. That’s where the factory started, the Connecticut River Valley in the late 1800s, where it was known as Symington Textiles,” Kira said. “The Symington family moved operations here in the Eighties. Changed the name. They figured with cheaper labor costs and lower taxes they could save the velvet factory. It worked for a while.”
“It was a union shop in Massachusetts, wasn’t it?” Lacey asked.
“Until they moved the plant to Virginia. The union would have been better for all of us,” Sykes said. “A union protects you.”
But even the union couldn’t keep the company from moving,
Lacey reflected.
“The family still owns part of it, but they took on partners down here to help carry the load.” Kira had access to all the records and she had absorbed the company history.
“How many partners are there, besides the family?” Lacey wondered how Claudia had become involved with the company.
“Three. Twenty percent interest apiece.”
“So together, the outside partners have a controlling interest,” Vic said. “If they vote as a bloc.”
“That’s right.” Kira grabbed another tortilla chip from the basket and crumbled it with her thin fingers. “That way, when it came to the final vote to keep or close the factory, the absentee owners didn’t have to look like the villains.”
“Who is the third partner?” Lacey asked.
“That would be one Tazewell Flanders,” Hank said.
Vic shared a look with Lacey and she straightened up. She told herself to be cautious, this could all just be bar chat. “Congressman Tazewell B. Flanders?”
And people think
my
name is funny.
Congressman Tazewell Flanders had all the sincerity and telegenic looks of a television anchor: shiny white teeth, a spray-on tan, the Kennedy haircut, and that floridly Southern name. He also had a nice blond wife who raised two model children and stayed conveniently out of his way. But Lacey had heard that the Blue Dog Democrat from Virginia who talked moderation was heavy on cash but light on political bona fides. What on earth was he doing buying into a failing factory?
“Not too many people know that,” Kira said. “I could be fired for discussing it, you know.” She started to laugh. “Wouldn’t want to risk my career after twenty-two years.’Cept there’s no one left to fire me. Someone tell me why I didn’t leave this town long ago.”
“Isn’t Tazewell Flanders running for governor of Virginia?” Lacey asked.
“Not official yet,” Vic nodded. “It’s a pretty crowded field and the election is nine months away.”
“Why he’d want to be governor, I don’t know,” Sykes said. “Seems like he’s got a pretty comfortable life up there in Congress. And he’s rich as sin. Everyone knows it.”
“Why not run? Virginia has a lame-duck governor on a road to nowhere,” Hank said.
Running for Virginia’s weak one-term-limited governor’s office indicated one thing to Lacey: Tazewell Flanders had no chance of winning his own district in the next election. He was banking on winning votes from people who didn’t know him yet. Maybe he could fool the state at large, then take aim at another office with more permanency.
“Could be a long-term plan to be Senator Flanders,” Vic said.
“I’m thinking the same thing,” Lacey said. “But why is he involved in this factory? No, wait. Don’t tell me he’s from Black Martin too?”
It was Sykes’s turn to be amused. “Just like Claudia Darnell and Rod Gibbs. Only he moved to a fancy house in Richmond on Monument Avenue. And now he hangs out on Capitol Hill,” Sykes said. “Sitting on his butt is all I can tell he does for us. Maybe he and Claudia have nice long lunches together.”
“What do people here think of the congressman?” Vic asked.
Sykes shrugged. “What do we think of any politician?” The rest of the table laughed.
“Save my job and I’ll vote for you,” Blythe said. “Do you know that fool offered to build a new gym for the high school if he’s elected? Like that’s more important than jobs.”
Lacey made a silent note to contact Flanders’s office for a statement on Rod Gibbs’s death. His spokesman would, of course, have no comment. And dealing with any politician would make it look like Lacey was treading on the toes of
The Eye
’s congressional reporter, which was never pleasant. She was beginning to wish she had never heard of Black Martin, Virginia, or Dominion Velvet.
The ambient noise inside the restaurant was drowning out the canned mariachi music. It almost drowned out Lacey’s thoughts. Vic finally got the waitress’s attention. Lacey ordered fajitas and switched her drinks to iced tea.
The table quieted suddenly as a new woman walked through the door. Heads turned as she passed. They watched the showy blonde sway her way to the bar.
“Who’s that?” Lacey watched with them.
Kira spoke up. “My guess is the happiest woman in Black Martin.”
“Freed from Blue Devil Hell,” said Inez. “The lucky widow.”
“Her name’s Honey,” Blythe said, hefting her margarita glass. “She’s celebrating, not grieving.”
“Rod was a dog,” Inez chimed in. “Now he’s a dead dog.”
Lacey looked at the newcomer with interest. She put the woman’s age at midthirties, younger than Rod. In spite of the thick black eyeliner and the fried platinum curls with dark roots, Honey Gibbs still had an air of wholesome prettiness. With a clean face and a comb, she might be a knockout. Her bubblegum pink nails matched her lipstick. Her striped red top and black leggings, which were tucked into stiletto-heeled boots, looked almost painted on. Honey was proud of her body, perhaps a little too proud. She looked like she had something to prove. Maybe to her dead husband.
“She’s a fine-looking woman.” Sykes ogled her with a grin.
“If you like that type,” Hank teased him.
“I like every type,” Sykes allowed. Inez poked him in the ribs.
Vic was smart enough not to say anything, but he caught Lacey’s eye and lifted one brow.
“It’s ’cause she works as a trainer at the gym,” Inez said. “She’s gotta look good.”
“Couldn’t keep Rod from straying, now could she?” Blythe waved their empty chip basket at the busy waitress, who brought a refill.
At the bar, Honey downed a shot of tequila and sipped a margarita.
“Hey, Honey, you might want to slow down,” the bartender said. “You got all night, you know.”
“That’s right. I got all day tomorrow too,” Honey said. “Not only that, I got the rest of my life. I’m free!” She threw her head back and laughed. “And you know what, Pablo? I’ll give a five-hundred-dollar Walmart gift card to the hero that put Rod out of his misery. And mine too.”
“I don’t know, Vic. What do you think of the grieving widow?” Lacey put her hand on his arm.
“It’s grief talking,” he said, his lips curving into a smile. “And laughing.”
“Funny kind of grief. More like relief,” Lacey said.
Blythe volunteered some history about Rod and Honey. It was common knowledge around town that the Gibbses were not a happy couple and unpleasant divorce proceedings were underway. There had been incidents of violence where the cops were called and found blood on the door-steps. Honey Gibbs had filed the papers, but with Rod’s death Honey would inherit whatever he had left. Rod would have hated that, everyone agreed.
“How do you know all this?”
“We have the same hairdresser,” Blythe said. It explained everything.
Honey’s voice soared. “Turning him blue was a judgment! You reap what you sow, Pablo, and Rod’s going to hell dyed blue.” The bartender asked her something quietly, to which Honey replied, “Open casket? Hell, yes! Let’em all look at him! Take some pictures—take all you want. Put ’em on YouTube! I don’t care.”
Honey Gibbs ordered another drink:
a blue margarita.
The bartender just laughed.
Chapter 7
“I’ll be right back. I have to see a man about a job,” Vic said. He squeezed Lacey’s shoulder and nodded toward Tom Nicholson, who had settled at a back table and was trying to shake off intrepid cub reporter Will Adler.
“You’re sure it’s not a rescue mission?” Lacey asked and he just smiled. “Don’t be too long. You don’t want to miss your fajitas. They’ll come as soon as you leave.”
She watched him walk away, admiring the view as she often did. When she turned back, she found an envelope on the table in front of her with her name on it.
“What’s this?” No one at the table seemed to know. They waited for her reaction.
“I think someone gave it to one of the waitresses and she set it down for you,” Kira said.
Lacey looked around to see if someone would acknowledge giving her the envelope. No dice. She sensed some kind of gruesome practical joke, like an exploding snake, so she opened it delicately. She found a set of photographs and a flash drive. Lacey handled the photos by their edges and stifled a gasp. She wouldn’t have to worry about her own poor photos of the corpse. The anonymous pictures were much better. Several close-ups showed Rod Gibbs’s blue body hanging from the spool of velvet. One focused tightly on one of his hands, blue and swollen and tied with blue velvet strips. Another two photos were shot from farther away, showing the vat in context in the dye house. There was also a picture of Rod from his younger, nonazure days. For contrast.
A note would be helpful,
she thought, but there was none.
The pictures were macabre and compelling. One shot of Rod’s Midnight Blue face was graphic and disturbing, not the kind of photo you’d want your children to see in the paper. But another from a distance, in profile, which showed more of the velvet spool, might be publishable. Another, better still, showed some of the shocked faces of the onlookers. Whoever took these pictures must have been in the crowd that day.
The Eye
wouldn’t print such photos, Lacey was pretty sure, but they might come in handy anyway. At any rate, whether to publish pictures of a dead man wouldn’t be her call, but Mac’s or some other editor’s. Perhaps even Claudia’s. Lacey didn’t remember anyone else taking pictures when the body was discovered. But the body had riveted all her attention. For all she knew, the photos were leaked by someone at the Black Martin police department, hoping to embarrass the state police. That kind of friction could be helpful.
“Okay, somebody knows who gave me this envelope.” Lacey stared at her companions one by one: Inez, Blythe, Hank, Sykes, Kira. One by one, they shook their heads.
“Looks like someone wants to help you out with your investigation,” Inez suggested. “Wasn’t me. If I’d taken them, I’d sell them to the
National Enquirer
.” Blythe agreed. After all, they could use the money and it would be payback for some of Rod’s more egregious sins.
“Maybe someone sent them to DeadFed too,” Sykes added helpfully.
That would be just perfect. Exclusive pictures of a Martian Blue Devil! Alien autopsy at eleven.
“Maybe you and that nice Damon Newhouse can work together on this story,” Blythe suggested.
“How’d you get interested in DeadFed anyway?” Lacey asked.
“All my fault,” Sykes said with pride. “I turned everyone on to it.”
The Hawaiian-shirted pirate. It fits
. Lacey held her tongue.
“It’s about time someone put Black Martin on the map,” Sykes said. “These politicians need to slap a big fat tariff on foreign imports. Stop those bandits from China. Slave labor factories. Hell, they probably got lead in all their fabrics.”
“How would they get lead in fabric?” Lacey wondered.
“Lead in the dyes. It could happen,” Sykes said. “Who knows? Maybe they wash ’em in cadmium. DeadFed says it’s worse than lead. And now they’re putting cadmium in toys.”
The discussion turned to politics and foreign countries trying to poison Americans, in addition to stealing their livelihoods. Lacey’s attention was caught by a cool breeze from the cantina door opening. Officer Armstrong swaggered into the restaurant like he owned the place. Lacey tucked the envelope with the photos in her purse and smiled to herself.
Armstrong paid no heed to her table, but headed straight for Honey Gibbs. Lacey was surprised by the intimate embrace the two shared.
“Oh, Gavin, it has been one hell of a day,” Honey said loudly.
Lacey strained forward. The room quieted to hear the cop say, “Don’t worry, Honey. You’re free of him now.” Armstrong, aware of his audience, flashed a warning glare. Heads swiveled back.
“What’s that all about?” Lacey asked the table.
“Comforting the widow in her hour of need, so to speak,” Sykes leered. “We all need a little comfort sometimes. You know what they say about pretty widows.”
“Shut up, Dirk.” Kira rubbed her arms. “Honey’s had her troubles with Rod. He roughed her up more than once. Until she walked out and threatened to deprive him of his precious man parts.”
“She looks pretty friendly with the investigating cop,” Lacey commented.
“That’s between the two of them,” Kira said.
“And no one wants to piss off the local law,” Hank said.
Something private in this town?
Lacey doubted that. It was a small town. People knew everyone else’s business. It reminded her of another town she knew.
When Lacey had been working in Sagebrush, Colorado, the attraction between her and then-Chief of Police Vic Donovan was palpable. However, Vic’s divorce was not final and Lacey refused to go out with him. He was still technically married, besides being the chief of police. It would have been a major conflict of interest for her, and she had had her a boyfriend at the time. But gossip about her had been rife.
Vic showed up in her life again six years later, finally free. It was a great relief to Lacey to find out he’d been married to his ex, Montana McCandless Donovan, in some fly-by-night wedding mill in Las Vegas. Vic was free to marry in the church, if it ever came to that. A lucky technicality. He hadn’t asked. She wasn’t sure she would say yes.
Yet.