“Is anyone else home?” Maggie asked, immediately rising from the sofa and smoothing her linen trousers. “Because I’d like complete privacy for this conversation.”
“No one, Mom,” Vivien assured her. “Tessa and Lacey are running around town finishing whatever they need to do for the Bat Mitzvah, and I’m up in my room working on a client’s project. You are alone out here.”
“Good. We’ll see him now.”
When Vivien stepped away, Jo Ellen stood and came closer to Maggie. “Maybe now we’ll get some answers, Mags. We gave him that Cotton Ramsey name darn near a week ago.”
Vivien nodded, suspecting that’s why Peter wanted to talk. They’d told him everything that Frank had shared and he said he’d “look into it.”
She dreaded what he might find. Roger and the Mafia? TheDixieMafia, whatever abhorrent thing that was.
It pained her to think about.
A moment later, Vivien and Peter stepped outside, and instantly, Maggie felt a prickle of warning. Peter’s expression was wary and worried, far more serious than the affable detective usually was. Just looking at him, she sensed a sudden shift in pressure before a storm.
“Hello, ladies,” he said in a fairly solemn greeting. “How are we today?”
“I don’t know,” Maggie replied, not interested in niceties. “You tell us.”
Vivien put her hand on his shoulder. “You want anything?” she asked. “Water? Soda? Straight gin?”
He didn’t laugh, which only worsened Maggie’s dread.
“I’m good. I’ll come up and get you when we’re done here. Then I’ll go help you pick up that rug and console table.”
“Thanks.” Vivien nodded and gave the other women a tight smile, then left them alone. Without a word, they moved to the seating area. In silent solidarity, Jo Ellen and Maggie sat next to each other on the rattan sofa while Peter positioned himself on the edge of a large chair across from them.
Suddenly, the sweet tropical air felt dense, and the sun slipped behind a cloud, stealing the warmth from the deck. Maggie just knew this wasn’t going to be good.
What could Roger have been involved with that could hurt her any more than what he’d already done? She didn’t know and was terrified to find out.
“So, Cotton Ramsey,” he started, glancing between the two women. “I was able to reach out to contacts up in Biloxi and did uncover, uh, quite a bit about this rather colorful character. His files are not sealed.”
Maggie’s throat tightened as she and Jo Ellen exchanged a glance.
“Just spell it out, Peter,” Maggie said, impatience rising. “How bad is it? What did my husband do? What mess do we have to clean up?”
His lips lifted in an amused smile. “Relax, Maggie,” he said. “Roger didn’t do anything.”
There was just enough emphasis on the name “Roger” for Maggie to let out a sigh of relief, but at the same moment, Jo Ellen sat straighter.
Then Peter pulled a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket, opening it with steady and—not that it mattered—quite strong hands with clean, clipped nails. Maggie always respected a man who kept his hands in good order. It usually meant his life was that way, too.
“Davis ‘Cotton’ Ramsey was arrested in early 1996 in a sting operation run jointly by the FBI and the Biloxi Police Department,” he started. “He was found guilty of a host of RICO crimes.”
Maggie shuttered her eyes. “What is that?”
“Racketeering,” he explained. “Conspiracy to commit fraud, loan sharking, wire fraud, mail fraud, obstruction of justice, to name a few.”
“In other words, they threw the book at him,” Jo Ellen said with a light laugh.
Maggie shot her a look. “You think this is funny?”
Her smile disappeared. “We didn’t marry Cotton Ramsey,” Jo Ellen fired back. “You don’t have to get your panties in a bunch, Mags.”
Yes, she did. Whoever and whatever this Cotton creature was, he’d breathed the same air as Roger and that horrified her.
“Anyway,” Peter continued, holding up a hand like a referee. “He was sentenced to twenty-five years but served fifteen before he was released on parole. He died about a year later.”
