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“I don’t know much about crabbing, but I don’t see any equipment on this rattrap that even remotely resembles what you’d need to do any serious crabbing.”
Dwayne crossed his arms. “What do you want?” he asked. His jaw worked hard enough to make my head hurt.
“What was your part in killing Curtis Little?”
Dwayne tossed his head back and laughed.
“Who killed Billy Ray?” I asked.
Dwayne shook with laughter. Apparently, I’d missed my calling as a stand-up comic.
“I know you’re part of a larger scheme. Something involving drugs. When they arrest Karla Dixon, she may not know the details, but I’m sure she’ll lead the cops to you. Do you really think you’re going to escape in that dinky little boat?”
Dwayne stopped laughing, but he grinned at me and wiped his eyes.
“You have no idea,” he said. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with. You’re in way over your head.”
“Who is Maria Benitez?”
His grin vanished. He went below and slammed the hatch.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Now I knew four things: Curtis Little had definitely been involved in smuggling illegal workers into the country, Karla Dixon was more than just a busty redhead, Dwayne Sutterman was way more than a pothead and occasional fisherman, and there was something distinctly rotten going on at Bower Farms. No wonder those three had latched onto Billy Ray.
So why would they want to kill the goose that provided their golden eggs? I could understand how Curtis Little might have gotten killed due to greed, but why Billy Ray? What motive would his minions have?
As I motored down the road, I grasped at straws. What should I do next? My mind meandered through the past few days. I thought about my talk with Danni Beranski. Had I asked her about Bower’s son, Junior? What had she said? That he wasn’t cut out to take over the business? Could it be he’d felt deprived of his birthright?
Maybe I needed to meet the guy.
After all, this was a small community. And word got around. What if Marshall Jr. heard about the confrontation? What if he wanted to take over the business in Billy Ray’s stead? And what if he knew about this “big operation,” whatever it comprised? Could this all add up to a couple of murders? One of which he’d conveniently pinned on Jamila, based on circumstance?
My mind was reeling. But it was a theory. Hell, it was a start. And it would explain why Marshall Bower, Sr., if he knew or suspected that his son killed his stepson and wanted to protect Junior, wouldn’t talk to me without a lawyer present. Speculation? Yes. Next step? Find proof.
I pulled onto the shoulder, dug my notebook out of my shoulder bag and checked the address I’d jotted down for Marshall Bower’s home. It was time to pay the Bower family a visit. I tucked the notebook away and hit the road.
*****
Twenty minutes later I motored up to an 8-foot-high wrought-iron gate. The kind with spikes on top for the severed heads. A small slate-gray box with blue and yellow buttons and a pinhole-dotted speaker was attached to one side of the entrance. Under the blue button it said, “Press Upon Arrival.” The yellow button was labeled “Press to Talk.” I pressed the blue button and waited.
A camera perched atop one of the brick columns flanking the gate. No attempt had been made to hide or camouflage it. Hi there! Welcome to the House of Bower Reality TV Show. I waved at it. Considered flipping the bird and thought better of it.
The speaker issued a crackled “Yes?”
I hit the talk button. “Hi. Is Junior there?” I was gambling. Couldn’t recall if he went by Junior or not. Seemed like he would. Silence ensued. Shit.
I wondered if I’d fucked up big time. The speaker squawked. Amid background noise, I heard, “Sorry about the wait. We’re around back. C’mon in.”
The gate clicked and opened. I eased the scooter through as if two-wheeling into a millionaire’s estate was something I did routinely.
I motored up a long, circuitous driveway lined with common-variety trees. The occasional dogwood or magnolia broke the monotony. The air was honey scented. I caught glimpses of white blossoms spiking upward among the
greenery. This trip through the Garden of Eden took me to the front entrance of the Bower mansion.
Viewing Chez Bower from the seat of a scooter had a humbling effect.
I gawked at the huge house looming over me—five stories of gabled faux Tudor excess extended left and right for a few thousand miles. The trees along the driveway had given way to a view of a sweeping front yard to rival the gardens of Versailles. Somewhere, I could hear music. Hip-hop? From behind a Tudor home? In Versailles?
