The problem was, it was bagged and tagged, sealed in protective plastic. There was no way to check the phone without shedding all that plastic. It had been marked with the initials of the officer who placed it inside, with a sticker sealing the bag.
Bag or no bag, I had to get to that phone. I made a decision: to hell with the state’s chain of custody. I glanced over at my companion, who was still snoozing. Without making a sound, I shifted my chair so that my back faced the deputy. Then I reached into my briefcase and slipped on a pair of gloves with touchscreen tips that Suzanne had loaned to me for just this purpose. After another nervous look over my shoulder at Little Boy Blue, I eased up the custody tag without breaking the tape or tearing the plastic. Breathing out in relief, I removed the phone from the bag.
I knew Jewel Shaw’s security code; it was listed in a report in the prosecution file. Working quickly, I accessed the phone. With my own cell phone, I took photos of Jewel’s call history, recent texts, and some photos. Though I didn’t pause to make a close inspection, it appeared that Suzanne’s calculations were on target; Jewel had a lot of “couple pics” with different men.
I heard the deputy stir. My heart nearly stopped.
“Ma’am? You still working on those boxes?”
Scooping the phone and the plastic wrapping into my lap, I said, “It won’t be too much longer. You’re sure a good sport, Deputy Brockes.” I began to repackage the phone. My hands were unsteady as I slipped it back into the plastic evidence bag and replaced the chain-of-custody tape. Turning to face the young deputy, I gave him an apologetic smile.
“No problem.” With a groan, he pushed away from the wall and rose, coming to stand over me at the table. I dropped the phone into the box and pulled out a stack of files that rested beneath it.
Then I had a chilling thought. Had I remembered to turn the damned thing off?
Chapter 13
SITTING IN A wicker rocking chair on the front porch of Shorty’s house, I sipped cold beer from the can, glad I’d overcome my initial hesitation.
“Shorty, that supper was incredible. Catfish just jumped to number one on my list of favorite foods.”
“Old family recipe,” he said with mock solemnity. “My daddy knew his way around a catfish, I guarantee.”
I rocked in the wicker chair. “And your father was the original Shorty?”
“Yep.”
“Because he was genuinely short?”
“About five foot six. I got my height from my mama’s side.” He stretched out his long legs; they nearly reached to the end of the porch.
I asked, “So why’d you get stuck with the nickname?”
He cut his eyes at me. “I’m a junior, named after my daddy. Clarence Palmer Morgan the Second.”
I snickered. “Oh, Lord.”
“So you get it?”
I nodded in acknowledgment. It would be easier for a boy to be known as Shorty Jr. Living with the name Clarence Jr. would have made life tough on the school playground.
A chilly breeze made the bare branches rattle in the yard. Shorty said, “Is it too cold for you out here?”
“No. I like it. It beats being cooped up in the Ben Franklin.” I shifted my chair so I could see him better in the dim light that shone from the window. “So. You got your poli sci degree at Mississippi State. And what were you going to do with that?”
“I wanted to be a journalist. Sound crazy?”
“Why’d you go all the way up to Missouri after you graduated from Miss State?”
“They have a really good J-school, first journalism school in the country. But Daddy had his stroke. I couldn’t stay up north while he was suffering in the hospital. Besides, somebody had to run the business. So I came back.” He swallowed beer from the can and fell silent. Then he turned to me and laughed, his good humor restored. “Never say you’ve kicked the dust of Rosedale off your sandals. Sure as you do, you’ll find yourself right back here.”
Well, he was right about that. When my mother and I left Williams County over a decade ago, I hadn’t figured I’d ever return.
“Come on, your turn. Tell me a story.”
“Oh, my life isn’t particularly interesting.”
“Now, come on. How about that big bad romance you mentioned today? Anybody I know?”
I shrugged, but he persisted. “Come on—let me know the name of the competition. So I’ll be able to tell whether I can kick his ass.”
I sighed. It wasn’t really a secret. In Jackson and Oxford, it was local legend. “His name was Greene. Lee Greene.”
“You’re kidding.” Shorty barked a laugh. “You mean that guy? The Lee Greene Junior?”
I shifted in my chair, uncomfortable. “Yeah. Him.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. I didn’t know I was consorting with royalty.”
I took a swallow from the beer can. “Well, you ain’t. Obviously.”
He cocked his head and studied me. After a moment, he said, “It’s easy to see what Lee Greene liked about you. What did you see in him?”
The question made me sit back in surprise. No one had ever questioned Lee’s appeal. He was the prince in the Cinderella story; I was the girl in rags, lucky to have him show up with a glass slipper.
To avoid answering, I said, “I don’t know how it was that I caught his eye. I wasn’t his usual type, believe me. Maybe he was weary of sweet southern belles. Tired of plain vanilla, maybe—I dunno.”
Shorty picked my hand up from the arm of the rocking chair. Turning it over, he kissed the palm of my hand. “Maybe he was in the mood for peppermint. Or cinnamon. Or chili powder.” His tongue touched the life line of my upturned palm, and I shivered.
“Well, I don’t think I’m ready for the details of your relationship with Lee Greene Junior. Tell me something else. One of your youthful triumphs,” he said.
I set my half-empty beer can on the floor beside my chair. “My adolescent stories are all kind of pitiful.”
“No kidding? Well, good. Tell me a sad one.”
“Actually, I went to sixth grade right here in Rosedale. And I was not anyone’s idea of a beauty queen. That title fell to Julie Shaw.”
He blinked. After a moment, he said in a hushed voice, “You mean you knew Jewel Shaw?”
“No. Yes. I mean, I knew who she was. She was older.”
He raised his beer can and chugged from it. “Did you like her?”
“No.”
Shorty shot me an appraising look. “That was a quick answer. For someone who didn’t know her.”
I didn’t respond. He reached out and took my hand. “What is it? Did you have a run-in with Jewel?”
I stared at him, wondering whether I should shut up and go home. But it might be a relief to confide in someone, and he seemed so trustworthy, looking at me with those gray eyes.
I dove in. “When we lived in Rosedale, my mom worked on the cleaning staff at the Blue Top Motel, and money was tight. Rosedale Public Schools had a PTA clothing bank, and Mom took advantage of it. I wasn’t ashamed. I knew the value of a buck, even as a kid.
“One day, my mom came home with a real prize: a beautiful pink sweater the color of cotton candy, in perfect shape, other than a small bleach stain—hardly noticeable. I wore it to middle school the next day, walking tall.”
“Uh-oh. I’m afraid I can guess where this story is headed.”
“Yep. I passed Jewel and her circle of friends in the hall on the way to my locker. One of Jewel’s friends pointed at me. She said, ‘Julie? Isn’t that your sweater?’”
The memory made my chest tight. I arched my back, trying to stretch the muscles.
Shorty was still holding my hand. He gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Jewel turned and stared—the first time she’d ever looked my way. Then she laughed. Said, ‘It was my sweater. Mom gave it away to the poor when she spilled Clorox on it.’”
Telling the story took me back; I remembered standing by that locker like it was yesterday. Jewel and her cronies whispered. One of them laughed. That was all.
But I threw the sweater in a dumpster after school.
Shorty asked, “So is that why you’re defending him?”
Startled, I jerked my hand away. How could he think that? “Hell, no. I’m defending him because I believe he’s innocent.”