Joker Joker (The Deuces Wild Series Book 2) by Irish Winters

Author:Irish Winters [Winters, Irish]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Windy Days Press
Published: 2017-08-12T18:30:00+00:00

“What’s Joyce Parrish’s real name then?” Tate couldn’t believe what Isaiah had just told everyone. His clothes were dry by then, the towel tossed to a vacant chair.

“Hattie Beauregard,” Isaiah replied without missing a beat. He’d rejoined the team, his cooler of evidence now safely locked in Tucker’s car. “She was born in southern Georgia to James Beauregard and his second wife, Augusta. His first wife, Beulah Rae, died under suspicious circumstances when their bedroom caught fire. Augusta brought three boys with her into the marriage, the sons of her previous husband, Duke Forrest, who by the way, died in a hunting accident. Between Beauregard and Augusta, they had nine children that lived, five that didn’t.”

“Let me guess,” Tucker drawled. “They died under suspicious circumstances.”

Isaiah gave the barest nod. “Let’s just say that Jerry Springer would have a heyday if this family ever made it to his stage. Two of Beauregard’s boys are in prison for armed robbery, another for murder. One of the girls is serving time for ditching her newborn daughter in a garbage can. Another’s in jail for poisoning dogs and cats in her neighborhood. You might’ve seen that one on the news. It was local.”

He took a breath. “Besides the name Joyce Parrish, Hattie’s got a string of aliases from state to state, not just in Georgia, plus charges from forgery to petty theft. She’s done jail time twice, nothing serious. I’ve tracked the newspaper stories about her as far north as Montana, and all the way to New York. She hasn’t strayed out of the country yet, but I wouldn’t put it past her now that she knows we’re onto her.”

“When’d you have time to do this?” Tate asked, hoping this wasn’t another sign of Isaiah’s superior psychic abilities.

“Easy,” Isaiah shot back at him. “I know some guys in the Bureau. You ought to try it, Tate. The FBI can be helpful.”

“Pretty gutsy, don’t you think? To demand an FBI escort for her daughter’s phony last wish?” Ky added.

“And look at this.” Eden slid an old newspaper clipping across the coffee table they’d gathered around while still sequestered in the waiting room. “Isaiah’s friends at the Bureau also found this in Hattie’s place. Apparently, she likes to keep mementoes.”

Tate lifted the clipping to his nose. The yellowed article had been mounted on black cardstock. It was a black and white picture of a younger Joyce Parrish and her daughter in front of a Salvation Army Christmas Tree with the headline: “Devoted Mother of Dying Daughter Demands Personal Visit From Macy’s Santa.”

While Tate scrutinized Joyce’s nervy face, Eden slid several other clippings to his side of the table. All mounted on black cardstock, every last clipping disclosed a photo of Joyce with a brash headline about some noble deed she’d done for her daughter or something she’d demanded be done for Winslow.

The shot of her at a Baptist Church spring bazaar to raise money for cancer awareness spotlighted Winslow sitting in a wheelchair, her legs covered with a blanket.

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