“Ever been up in an open cockpit plane?” Rooster asks me.

  “Can’t say I have.”

  His eye glitter with excitement. “There’s nothing quite like it in the whole world!”

  “Will it muss my hair?” Mick asks, presumably in a bid to lighten the mood.

  Rooster shoots him a grin. “The wind blowing through your hair is the best part! You can borrow my comb when we land.”

  I’ve been looking at our seats while they’ve been discussing hairdos. It’s somewhat of a bare bones set up. Rooster slaps a parachute onto my back, then tugs it a bit here and pulls it a bit there before pronouncing me, “Good to go!”

  After Mick is strapped into his chute, Rooster leads us to the aircraft, where step onto the lower wing, and from there we’re able to hop into our seats. Mick and I are side-by-side in the front cockpit; Rooster is in the rear seat with the controls.

  “Let’s go!” Mick whoops.

  Rooster leans forward so his head is between ours. “Not until we have a little safety briefing.”

  How long can that take? No seatbacks to return to their upright position, no tray tables to worry about, only a tattered seatbelt to fasten—which I pull as snug as I possibly can in hopes of not being prematurely ejected from the aircraft.

  “If we get into trouble and I tell you to bail out, hoist yourself up and out of your seat and jump over the side,” Rooster says. “If you’re quick, you’ll be right behind me. If not, well…”

  “We’ll plummet to the ground with the plane?” I ask.

  “You’re catching on quick,” he replies with a grin. “If you make it out, you’ll see me down below.”

  “What do I do after I jump out of the plane?”

  “Do whatever I do as we fall.” He reaches to flick the D-ring handle on my parachute. “This will release your chute. Don’t pull it until you see me pull mine. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I parrot.

  He cocks an eyebrow. “If you make it that far, you’ll find yourself dangling beneath your chute as it comes down. Try not to break your legs. Roll when you hit the ground. It’ll hurt.”

  “Great,” I grumble. “Is there a silver lining?”

  “Sure is. Only hurts if you’re still alive.”

  “That’s uh, great … Rooster.”

  He chuckles, his eyes twinkling. “You’ve tripped over my name a time or two. Something in it that bothers you?”

  Nothing aside from fixing to take a spin in the wild blue yonder with a cartoon character. “It’s a bit unusual,” I say instead.

  He winks. “Just for shits and giggles, I had it legally changed to Leghorn some time back.”

  I grin back at him. “For shits and giggles, huh?”

  “And to watch folks like you struggle with how to react. Well worth the headache and fees.”

  And thus ends today’s safety briefing, but I can’t leave well enough alone. I mention seeing The Great Waldo Pepper. “The planes looked a lot like this one.”

  He nods and grins. “That’s right. This baby is a couple of years newer, though.”

  “A couple of years?”

  He thinks on it a moment. “Maybe as much as ten or fifteen.”

  “But weren’t the movie planes from World War One?”

  “Naw, nineteen twenties, maybe early thirties. This puppy is only twenty some years older than me. Great plane. One of the last open tandem cockpit aircraft still flying. End of an era. A pity, really.”

  Uh-huh.

  I fiddle with a microphone and earpiece that will allow us to communicate above the onrushing wind, then press the talk button and speak up so I can be heard above the motor. “Test?”

  “Don’t shout!” Mick replies.

  So we’re all connected. Someone will hear my last words.

  We’re now bouncing along the grass runway, jostling against each other and up and down against the seatbelt restraints as we pick up speed. I’ve never been in a plane this small before; the only thing close was a trip to Minnesota a few years back, but that plane was larger and I had a roof over my head. The experience of taking off in this crate feels much the same as riding across a field in a car with the top down. The ground is close, the ride is rough, and the wind is whipping through my hair.

  One of the many causes for concern is the propeller. Anytime I’ve seen propellors whirling, they rotate so fast they’re a circular blur. I’m able to see both props of Rooster’s plane spinning individually. I lean back to look over my shoulder and shout, “Shouldn’t the propeller be going a little faster?”

  “Naw, it’s all good. This thing barely has a hundred horsepower and flies ninety miles per hour or thereabouts. Don’t need much prop speed for that, especially for taxiing.”

  If I’m not mistaken, the crappy old 1976 Ford Fairmount I drove around Milwaukee during my undergrad days had a few more horses under the hood. Remember the old Wile E. Coyote and Roadrunner cartoons where Wile would miss the turn on a mountain road and hurtle through space unaware for a moment, until he looked down and the scene ended with a little circle of dust appearing on the ground? That’s where my minds goes as we claw our way skyward, willing our little Waco higher and higher.

  I turn to Mick. “Couldn’t you have rented a plane from this century—maybe one that doesn’t fly out of a cow pasture?”

  Mick shrugs. “Rooster was available on short notice, he’s in our neighborhood, and the price was right. He says we’re gonna get an up close and personal look at the Gareau property.”

  “Hopefully not so close they can identify us or shoot us down with a BB gun.”

  Rooster taps my shoulder a minute later and points to a town just ahead of the left wing. “There’s Cairo. The Gareau family compounds are a couple of miles farther along.”

  Cairo is the seat of Gareau County. It appears much as I imagine Hanover does from the air. A minute later we overfly what Rooster identifies as Wyatt’s land. A massive mansion on the scale of Red Oak Manor sits on the crest of a rise, the home where the firstborn of each Gareau generation has lived in opulent splendour since Antebellum times.

  “Do you fellas wanna see anything specific down there?” Rooster asks.

  “Any likely places to hide a car,” I reply. “On Beau’s property in particular.”

  We pass over another compound, which apparently belongs to a Gareau daughter and her husband.

  “Beau’s land is up ahead,” Rooster announces as we sail along at an altitude of several hundred feet. The land isn’t as densely treed as the other compounds, leading me to believe this area was either the heart of their cotton operations or wasn’t as diligently reforested afterward. Pumpjacks dot the countryside, sucking oil out of the ground and sending their sour stench skyward. They’re commonplace across Gareau County, save for on Wyatt’s property. I imagine the reek of their profits isn’t welcome at the main house. I’m surprised to see a baseball field and an above-ground swimming pool in a back corner of Beau’s compound.

  “Does Beau have kids?” I ask Mick.

  “None I’m aware of.”

  “Beau Gareau still hasn’t grown up,” Rooster says from behind us.

  A large garage with a blue steel roof sits behind the main house.

  “Jesus, that thing could hold eight or ten vehicles,” Mick marvels.

  “Easily,” I agree, then point at a barn. “A car would fit in there too.”

  We pass over a couple of smaller outbuildings large enough to contain a car, but neither has an easy means of getting a vehicle to them. No gravel driveway, no worn path, not even so much as an old cow track. That doesn’t mean a car isn’t hidden inside, but it seems unlikely. The barn and garage are of greater interest.

  I turn back to Rooster. “Can we take a closer look at the garage and barn?”

  He nods. “Just what I was thinking.”

  Rooster takes us back around in a long slow turn, losing altitude as he does. A dog greets us as we fly overhead the house after passing the closed barn. I look long and hard at the garage. Seven bays are open with vehicles inside, but we’re not close enough to identify any of them. An open topped Jeep is parked by the side door. The dog races along, stopping abruptly by the Jeep to stare after us, teeth bared as it snarls and yaps. Rooster pulls a tight turn and drops us down to little more than rooftop height as we return to buzz the house and garage. I smile. Echoes of Waldo. Barnstorming must have been a gas!

  It isn’t until we complete the turn and hurtle toward the house that it occurs to me that I haven’t yet pooped or peed myself. And, wouldn’t you know it, I no sooner have that thought than a man emerges from the house, rifle in hand, and starts shooting at us.

  24

  “No idea who it was,” I told Sheriff Lambeau while relating the tale of our harrowing barnstorming escape. Sadly, we couldn’t identify Beau Gareau as the shooter—who could tell from the floor of the passenger compartment? Lambeau kept his opinions about the propriety of our flight to himself. Whether or not shooting us down would be judged legal under Mississippi’s stand your ground law would make for a fascinating legal spectacle, but we’re here to argue a more mundane legal matter. We got a close enough look at Beau’s compound to identify likely hiding spots. Coupled with the videos and witness statements identifying the vehicle that killed Clay Fish, we have enough to request a targeted search warrant.

  Or so we thought.

  DA Pinkney refused to take the request to a judge. When Harper did so herself, Pinkney prevailed upon the judge to have it executed by Sheriff Steele of Gareau County. In an utterly shocking development, Steele claims his search failed to turn up much of anything.

  “Think Beau knew the cops were coming?” Harper asked acerbically when Steele returned the search results—two recent model Chevy SUV’s and some farm implements in the garage, and a rusted-out tractor in the barn.

  The DA also thwarted our bid to interview Beau Gareau. Instead of an in-person session with us, Mutt allowed Sheriff Steele to have an on-the-record chat with Beau while his deputies were conducting the faux search. A clerk from Pinkney’s office delivered a recording of their chat to us a few minutes ago. In an accompanying note, the big man wrote: Have a look at this before you come upstairs. I don’t want to waste time watching it again later—later being the ten-minute audience he’s granted us.

  Harper and I are watching the interview now. Beau is a snotty little turd; more Ty Baudry than Wyatt Gareau. I peg him for five feet eight or nine, all angles and bony protuberances with lank, dirty blond hair that covers his ears and shirt collar. His nose is outsized, dominating his otherwise bland face. A sad excuse for a mustache is scattered above his upper lip. His demeanor is, if possible, less attractive than his countenance.

  Steele asks him about the car. “Where was it that night? Where is it now?”

  “Car got stole that night,” Beau snaps in a reedy voice heavy on Southern drawl. “Ain’t seen it since. We ‘bout done here?”

  “Where were you, Beau?’

  “No idea. Where was you, Sheriff?”

  “Working.”

  Beau sits for a moment, chomping away at a wad of gum, or perhaps chewing tobacco, generating a bulbous knot in his cheek and causing his prominent Adam’s apple to bob up and down. “Ain’t like I remember what I was doing every minute of every day a month or two ago. Who in hell knows shit like that?” A cocky little smile curls his thin lips. “Specially if I knocked back a few brews, which I’ve been known to do on a Saturday night … am I right?”

  “Thought with it being the night a man got himself run down and killed, you might remember.”

  “Nope.”

  “Fair enough, son,” Steele says, edging into the camera’s line of sight to shake Beau’s hand.

  “I had nothing to with that Injun getting himself run down, Sheriff. This better be the end of this shit.”

  “Should be,” the sheriff assures him.

  “Y’all warn that Baudry bitch to stay the fuck outta my bizness or things is gonna get ugly, Sheriff.”

  “I’ll pass it along,” Steele says as the video ends.

  My blood boils at the final exchange. No admonition from Steele to Beau about threatening an officer of the court, no indication he considered Beau’s outburst worthy of a reprimand, no indication Steele doesn’t share Beau’s contempt for Harper and his indifference to her safety. Nor did the interview do a thing to advance our case.

  “Time to go,” Harper says after a glance at the time. It’s closing on eleven o’clock in the morning of the first Friday of December—my self-imposed deadline to lay charges against Beau Gareau. Outside the window, Mother Nature is striving to match my gloomy disposition—the temperature has plunged below freezing, the last leaves are flying off the trees, and the sky is a threatening battleship gray.

  We gather our things and trudge upstairs to the District Attorney’s office. “As if we’re supplicants coming to kiss Mutt’s ring,” I groused while he kept putting us off, but today’s finally the day. We’re not coming back down these stairs empty-handed.

  Mutt and Jeff are waiting for us. After a terse exchange of greetings, Harper hands Mutt a criminal complaint against Beau Gareau that we drafted this morning. Pinkney gives it a brief read-through and drops it into a trashcan as he walks away from her. “It was an accident.”

  “Fuck him,” I mutter to Harper loud enough to be heard by the retreating DA. My outburst has the desired effect. Mutt spins on his heel and marches straight back to us, planting himself two feet away from me, hands on hips like an irate schoolmarm.

  I step around him and pluck the criminal complaint out of the trash, then jam it up against his chest, getting right in his face so I tower above him. “The criminal complaint is based on the video and witness evidence of the General Lee being seen at the scene of the crime”—I thrust an accusing finger to within an inch of his chest—“evidence developed in spite of your blatant obstruction.”

  “There’s more than enough justification to take the matter to a grand jury,” Harper adds.

  “There’s a good reason why we don’t let you do criminal law,” Mutt says dismissively, easing a step close to Harper and locking eyes with her. “Let’s remember the pecking order around here, shall we? You’re the lowly County Attorney spinster sister, and I’m the cock of the walk.” He hooks a thumb in my direction. “This guy doesn’t exist in the Twenty-Fourth District. Get back to your DUI cases and knitting.”

  The blood is up in Harper’s cheeks. “Come on, Benji! A grand jury in this district would indict SpongeBob SquarePants for getting wet if we asked them to.”

  “Enough, goddammit!” the DA explodes, pointing at the door. “Get out!”

  I pause on the threshold and lock eyes with him. “This isn’t over.”

  “The hell it ain’t,” he crows with a triumphant grin as he closes the door in my face.

  “Oh, it ain’t,” I mutter at the nameplate beside the door. He may think we’re leaving emptyhanded, but we’re not.

  25

  “So, about Beau Gareau’s place,” Mick says when he arrives at Flo and Jimmy’s house a few minutes before noon the next day. Whatever is on his mind is bursting to get out.

  “I’m almost afraid to ask,” I say. It’s an unseasonably warm and sunny day, so I suggest we take advantage of the sunshine while we can and lead the way outside. A ground-level deck stretches twelve feet into the yard from the patio door. It’s at least twenty feet wide. A narrow blacktop driveway that runs up the side of the house ends at the edge of the deck. We drop into a pair of resin Adirondack chairs, set our feet on a deck box, and settle in for a chat.

  “You were saying?” I prompt.

  “I took some pictures while we were up there,” he says. “I think a see a way to sneak in⁠—”

  Chepi rockets into the driveway, arriving on a fat-tire eBike Lana bought for her. It’s a monster with tires big enough for a pickup truck and a motor that can get her up to twenty-five miles per hour. While part of me prefers the idea of Chepi holed up in the woods far from prying eyes, knowing she has a viable means of escape is somewhat comforting—so long as she doesn’t draw unwanted attention to herself buzzing around on it. I believe one calls this a double-edged sword.

  “Hold that thought,” I tell Mick. “Again.”

  Her shrugs and laughs. “I’m gonna tell you—sooner or later.”

  Chepi stops five feet short of mowing us down, flips up the tinted face shield on a motorcycle helmet, and grins. “Hey, Mr. V! Lovely day!”

  She’s barely settled when my rental SUV pulls into the driveway with Pat behind the wheel. Highway 61 doesn’t have this much traffic!

  “Ah, here’s Pat with lunch from Chick-fil-A,” I announce.

  “I had no idea there’s a Chick-fil-A in town,” Mick says.

  “There isn’t,” I reply. “She’s been at Alcorn this morning and picked up lunch.”

  “What’s Alcorn?”

  “It’s a State University. Pat was interviewing a witness.”

  Pat exits the vehicle, bulky Chick-fil-A bag in hand, wearing an uncertain smile as she looks from me to our guests. She’s going home for a few days tomorrow morning, and planned to leave enough Chick-fil-A leftovers behind to keep me from starving. So much for that plan. I wave everyone after me, head inside to the kitchen, and lay out four chicken sandwiches, two boxes of nuggets, and four bags of waffle fries. Pat snags the salad she bought for herself.

  “I have news from Roscoe,” Chepi announces as everyone digs in.

  “And I have news from Alcorn,” Pat adds with a wink at Chepi.

  Not to be outdone, Mick says, “And I come with a plan.”

  Between bites of rabbit food, Pat explains the background of her visit to Alcorn. Blanche of Hanover Today arranged for Pat to speak with the young man Blanche interviewed the day after Clay’s death. I settle back to listen.