Pelican Court (Cedar Cove #3)(107)

Bess considered her words, and then seemed to steel herself mentally. “I’m staying,” she announced, glaring defiantly at the sheriff. “Troy Davis, I remember you cheated on that spelling test. I never should’ve voted for you. You aren’t to be trusted.”

The small group gathered into a tight knot, buzzing with indecision. To her surprise, it was Ben who raised his hands and spoke. “Perhaps we should reconsider.”

A chorus of loud protests instantly followed. Ben looked at Troy Davis and shrugged. “I tried, Officer.”

“Unfortunately, you didn’t try hard enough.” The sheriff glanced down at his watch—five minutes must be up—and then without another word, marched over to his patrol car. He turned his head and spoke into the small transmitter attached to his shoulder. He was making good on his threat, Charlotte realized, and calling for backup.

A few minutes later, two patrol cars rolled into view. Charlotte groaned inwardly.

Olivia wasn’t going to like this one bit.

Twenty-Nine

Roy McAfee received the long-awaited phone call the second week of April, almost a month after Davis had sent the water bottle found in Maxwell Russell’s car to the county lab for testing. He asked Roy to stop by his office as soon as possible.

Within ten minutes of that call, Roy was headed out the front door of his office.

“Was that Sheriff Davis?” Corrie asked, glancing up from her desk as he breezed past his wife.

Roy nodded and reached for his coat. “Apparently the lab found something.” He’d known they would, and he felt vindicated. Now maybe they could get somewhere with this case.

“The sheriff isn’t exactly the most popular man in town at the moment,” Corrie said as she pointed to the latest edition of The Cedar Cove Chronicle.

Roy tried unsuccessfully to disguise a smile. The front page of The Chronicle had shown a photograph of a disgruntled Sheriff Davis and two deputies handcuffing a group of senior citizens. Roy would say one thing—this small and lively band of retirees had certainly gotten their message out.

“I can’t help feeling sorry for Davis,” Roy murmured.

“Of course your sympathies would lie with the lawman, but as far as I’m concerned, Mrs. Jefferson and her friends have a good point.”

“There are other ways of getting the city to provide a health clinic without violating the law.”

Roy should know better than to argue with Corrie; as usual, she had an immediate comeback. “The article said Mrs. Jefferson and Mr. Rhodes have done everything by the book and didn’t get anywhere, because of the budget cuts. You and I both know what it’s like to ram our heads against City Hall.”

“Sheriff Davis was only doing his job.” Frankly, Roy wouldn’t have wanted to be the one responsible for escorting a group of old people to jail. From what he’d heard, it had been a madhouse, with several of the ladies demanding lawyers and going on about their constitutional rights. Apparently they’d viewed too many Law & Order reruns.

“I should’ve known you’d side with your friend,” Corrie said. “How would you feel, though, if that had been your mother or mine?”

He chuckled. “My mother’s been gone for a lot of years and as for yours—”

“Don’t even start, Roy McAfee,” she muttered.

But Roy saw that Corrie was trying not to laugh. On impulse, he walked around her desk and soundly kissed her.

Corrie looked up at him. “What was that for?”

“You’re nothing like your mother.”

“Roy!”

“Sweetheart,” he said, pleading innocence. “I love you.”

Laughing softly, she steered him toward the door.

Roy decided to walk the fifteen minutes to the sheriff’s office. His gut told him they were close to uncovering Russell’s secrets.

Troy Davis appeared to be waiting for him. He gestured to the chair and then shoved a file at him before Roy even had a chance to sit down.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“The toxicology report.”

Roy reached for it and flipped it open. He scanned the first three pages before his eyes landed on flunitrazepam. He raised his eyes to the sheriff’s. “That drug—what is it?”

“Brand name is Rohypnol.”

That was a name Roy recognized. The date-rape drug, as it was commonly called. He’d seen the effects of it during his years on the force. It’d been referred to as “roofies” when it first hit the streets in the early nineties.

Very clever choice, Roy mused as he read over the report. Not the type of drug anyone would typically use to kill a man over fifty. “No wonder it took the lab a month to find it,” he murmured, thinking aloud.

“Whoever killed him dissolved it in the bottled water. It’s tasteless and odorless—and it’s a potent tranquilizer. When it’s given in large doses, the obvious happens.”

Roy knew that, too. A large enough dose would have lethal consequences.

Roy set the file on the sheriff’s desk. “All that confirms is what we’ve both suspected. Russell was murdered.” Unfortunately, the toxicology report didn’t reveal who’d poisoned him or why.

The sheriff relaxed in his chair and steepled his fingers as he rested his hands against his abdomen. He looked directly at Roy. “It could’ve been Beldon. He had opportunity.”