The Summer House

Chapter 63

Special Agent Connie York spots the correct street number on the mailbox marking the home of Peggy Reese of the Sullivan County Times, and she parks the Ford sedan a few yards up the road. They are in a small housing development of double-wide trailers with carports.

After Cook’s orders hours back, Sanchez spent some time under both vehicles, searching the undercarriages with a flashlight, and said, “Looks clean. I don’t think they’re tracking us in our rentals.” As she switches off the engine and hands the keys over to Sanchez, she thinks this was at least one bit of good news before they all started this early Wednesday morning.

“I’ve got my phone, and I’ve got my service weapon,” Connie says.

“I still don’t like it,” Sanchez says. “For all we know, that woman is a cousin of the sheriff and is ready to take a wrench to your head. You know how everybody down here is always somebody’s uncle, aunt, second or third cousin.”

York opens the door. “Well, if that’s true, let’s hope she’s estranged.”

She walks up the asphalt and then along the driveway. A dog is barking somewhere, and up ahead, a light is on over the front door. Flying insects are making a moving halo around the globe.

One knock on the door is all it takes, and a slim woman with cotton-white hair opens the door. “Right on time,” Peggy Reese says, smiling. “I like you already, Agent York. If that’s who you are.”

Connie digs out her wallet and badge, shows the identification. “This is who I am.”

“Then come right in.”

The inside of the home is clean and orderly, with two couches forming an angle, a kitchen off to the left, bookcases filled with hardcovers and paperbacks, and a coffee table with newspapers on top — Wall Street Journal, New York Times, Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Peggy is wearing black slacks and a yellow-and-blue Walmart smock, which she tugs off and tosses to the floor. Underneath she has on an old Allman Brothers concert T-shirt, and two large black-and-white cats come tumbling into the living room, hitting each other with their paws.

“Roscoe, Oreo, knock it off!” she says, scooping them up in her arms, giving each a quick nuzzle, and then tossing each onto a separate couch, where they land safely and expertly.

She turns and says, “You know what you call two cats?”

“I don’t know,” Connie says, liking the woman. “A herd? A pride? A duo?”

Peggy smiles. “A crazy cat lady starter kit. Get you a drink before we begin?”

Connie shakes her head. “No... it’s too late, and officially, I’m on duty.”

“Hon, wasn’t going to offer you liquor,” she says. “I like a cold lemonade after a shift. Cleans out the dust and bullshit in my mouth.”

“I’d love one,” she says.

“Be right back,” Peggy says. “Sit on a couch. Hope you like cats. Roscoe and Oreo don’t think I get enough visitors, and they’re right. As long as you’re here, they’ll be either sniffing your hair or biting your feet.”

A few minutes later, she’s sipping on a glass of cold, fresh lemonade, the best Connie’s ever had, and Peggy has a reporter’s notebook and pen in hand. She says, “Mind if we get to work? Won’t make Wednesday’s paper, but if all goes well, it should appear in the Thursday one.”

Connie stifles a yawn. “I’ll do the best I can. But some things I can’t comment on.”

Peggy flips a page in the slim notebook. “Fair enough. Mind telling me your official rank and name, and where you’re from?”

“Special Agent Connie York, US Army Criminal Investigation Division. Stationed in Quantico, Virginia.”

“And you got a major running the show down here,” she says. “Older fella who’s limping. Where is he?”

Connie says, “He’s been... called away.”

“I see,” she says. “Where?”

“I can’t tell you.”

The reporter smiles. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Connie says, “You might not think it’s fun when your part is done.”

“Oh?”

“I need some information about this county,” she says. “Right now, you’re it.”

The reporter’s smile fades. “Let’s just wait and see, all right?”

Fifteen minutes later, Connie is exhausted. Despite the woman’s age, and the rural county she lives in, and the small paper she works for, Peggy is good. Sharp, inquisitive, and when Connie dodges a comment, the older woman doesn’t complain, she just nods and circles back, and a while later tries again. Connie has dealt with reporters over the years, during her time in the Virginia State Police and through her Army service, but this woman — who has one of the black-and-white cats sitting on her shoulders throughout — is one of the best reporters Connie has ever encountered.

Peggy scribbles some more, looks up, and says, “Well, seems like that’s about as much as I’m gonna squeeze out of you this morning ’bout what happened at The Summer House, the poor place.” The notebook slaps shut.

Connie says, “My turn now.”

“Not sure if I can help you.”

“But you know this county, you know the people.”

Peggy carefully says, “Not as much as you’d think.”

“But you’re a reporter here.”

“Not always,” Peggy says. “I’ve only been here five or so years.”

“Aren’t you from Sullivan?”

Peggy bursts out laughing. “Crap, no. Gad, is my accent that thick? No, I’m from North Carolina originally. This double-wide belonged to a distant uncle who passed on, and I was the nearest relative it was awarded to. Nope, went up to the University of Richmond for my degree in journalism, got my master’s at Columbia, went to work for the Times-Dispatch in Richmond, did some bureau work for the Associated Press, and then went to the Washington Post.”

The other cat jumps into her lap, and she scratches its head. Even from across the room, Connie can hear the loud purrs.

Peggy says, “You’re too polite to ask, so I’ll answer it for you. Special Agent York, I’m a drunk. Or alcoholic, if you prefer. Time came at the Post when early retirement was offered, and it was gently suggested that I depart, so I did. And when I woke up and dried out a couple of years later, here I was.”

“I see,” Connie says.

The woman keeps on rubbing the cat’s head. The purring stays constant.

“Peggy, what can you tell me about this county?”

The reporter doesn’t meet her eye, just keeps on rubbing and rubbing. “It’s a county. No better and no worse than most counties, I guess.”

“Then Sheriff Williams,” Connie says. “You’ve been here long enough to know her quite well. What’s she like?”

“Our blessed Emma Williams, high sheriff of Sullivan County?” Peggy asks. “She’s a fair, loving, and incorruptible law enforcement officer who is devoted to public service.”

The words say one thing; the woman’s tone says quite another.

“Peggy...”

“Oh, what does it matter?” Peggy says. “In a day or two you Army folks will be gone from Sullivan County. Those of us who stay here, who can’t or won’t move, we’ll still be around to have Sheriff Williams as our local and friendly chief law enforcement officer.”

“It matters a lot,” Connie says. “If it can make a difference in our investigation... please, Peggy, tell me what you know.”

Peggy looks up, eyes strained and worried. “Any way you can protect me?”

Connie says, “Truthfully? Probably not.”

She slowly nods. “The truth. A pretty rare jewel in this county.” Peggy takes a breath. “All right. Emma Williams is sheriff of Sullivan County, and she runs the biggest criminal enterprise in this part of Georgia. Not a gallon of moonshine, bale of marijuana, or kilo of crystal meth gets moved around or sold here without her knowledge, approval, and cut of the proceeds.”

The room is silent. The cat’s purrs are still loud.

Peggy says, “Think that’ll make a difference?”